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BOSTON. 



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POETICAL WORKS 



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FELICIA HEM AN S. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



WITH A MEMOIR, BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, 



A NEW EDITION, 

FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION, 
WITH ALL THE INTHODITCTORY NOTES. 



Jhgantli} SlliijgtrateJi 



FROM ORIGINAL DESIGN 



BOSTON: 
CROSBY AND NICHOLS 

NEW YORK: OLIVER S. FELT. 

1864. 



■i^" 

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Entered according to Act of Conaress. in the year i85«j^ By 

rUU-LIPS- SAMPSON. AND COMFANY. 

B the Clerk's Office of the District Court o^ the District of Massachusetti 



Bj Transfer 
JUN 6 1907 



CONTENTS. 



<-§^^^i>v^ 




Page 

HEMOiB . . 27 

JIIVENILE POEMS. 

On my Mother's Birthday Written at the age of eight. 49 

A Prayer. Written at the age of nine 49 

Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven 49 

(^halfspeare. Written at the age of eleven, 50 

To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the 

age of eleven 50 

Bonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve. . . . 50 

Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

Bonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 51 

England and Spain ; or, Valor and Patriotism. Written 

at the age of fourteen 5^ 

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, 

AND OTHER POKMS. 

The Silver Locks. Addressed to an aged Friend 58 

To ray Mother 59 

To my Younger Brother, on his return from Spain, after 
the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore, and the 

Battle of Corunna 60 

To my Eldest Brother, with the British Army in Portugal 60 

Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith 61 

rile Ruin and its Flowers CI 

Christmas Carol C2 

The Domestic AtTections 63 

To Mr. Edwards, the Harper of Conway 68 

Epitaph on Mr. W , a celehrated Mineralogist 68 

Epitaph on the Hammer of tlie aforesaid Mineralogist. . . 69 
Prologue to the Poor Gentleman, as intended to be per- 
formed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at 

Clonme) 69 

THE KESTORATION OF THE WORKa OF ART TO 

ITALY 71 

MODERN GREECE 77 

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, 

AND OTHER POETS. 

Bon net 70 94 



Sonneta82. From Psalm 137 ,.. 94 

Part of Eclogue 15 94 

Sonneta71 95 

Sonnet 186 95 

Sonnet 108 95 

Sonnet 23. To a Lady who died at Sea 95 

Sonnet 19 95 

" due estranho caso de amor ! " 96 

Sonnet 58 96 

Sonnet 178 96 

Sonnet 80 96 

Sonnet 239. From Psalm 137 97 

Sonnet 128 97 

" Polomeu apartamento " 97 

Son net 205 97 

Sonnet 133 98 

Sonnet 181 98 

Sonnet 278 98 

" Mi nueve y dulce querella " 98 

Metastasio 98 

— " Al furor d' avversa Sorte " 98 

— " duella onda che ruina " 98 

— " Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie " 99 

— " Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine ".. 99 

— " Parlagli d' un periglio " 99 

— " Sprezza il furor del vento " 99 

— " Sol pu6 dir che sia contento" , 99 

— " Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle! " 99 

ViscENzo DA FiLicAJA. — " Ilitlia ! Italia! O tu cui 

di6 la sorte" 100 

Pastorini.^ — J' Genova mia ! se con asciutto ciglio"... 100 

Lope ue Vega. — " Estese el cortesanii " •. 100 

Fbancisoo Manuel. — On ascending a hill leading to 100 

a Convent 100 

Della Casa. — Venice IOC 

Il Marchese CoRNELto Bentivoglio. — " L' anima 

bella, che dal vero Eliso " 101 

Quevedo. — Rome l)uried in her own Ruins 101 

El conde Juan de Tarsis. — " Tu, que la dulce vida 

en tiernas anos " 101 

ToRQijATo Tasso. — "Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea 

rosa " 101 

Bernardo Tasso, — " Ouest' ombra che giammai non 

vide il sole " 102 

Petrarch. — " Chi vuol veder quantunque pud natura " 109 

— " Se lamentar augelli, O verdi fronde".. 109 

fl9) 




Page 
Vemi Spachuoli di Pietro Ueubo — "O Miierto! 

que sueles ser " 102 

FaANCEicu LoRENziNi. — "O Zeliretto, die movemlo 

vai" 102 

Gesner. — Morning Song 102 

Ciernuin Sung. — " Mailchen, lernet Amor konnen "... 103 
CiiAULiEU. — " Grotte, d' oii sort ce clair rnisseaii "... 103 
Qakcilaso de Vega. — " Coyed de vuestra alegre pri- 
ma vera '' 103 

Lorenzo oe AIedici. — Violets 103 

Pr.iuEUONTE. — On tlie Ilcbe of Canova 104 

MlSCELLAiNEOCS POEMS. 

Lineal written in a Hermitage on tlie Sea Shore 104 

birje of a Child 1 "5 

Invocation lO.'J 

To the Memory of General Sir E— D P-K— M lOU 

To the Memory of Sir II— Y E— LL— S, who fell in The 

Battle of Waterloo lOli 

Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the 

Spanisli Patriot Mina 107 

The Aged Indian 107 

flvening amimgsi the Alps 108 

Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverley " 108 

The Crusaders' War Song 108 

The Death of Clanrunald 109 

To the Eye 109 

The Hero's Death 110 

Btanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte 110 

Wallace's invocation to bhuce 114 

Advertisement by the Author 114 

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The Abencerrage 1 18 

The V\idow of Crescentins 137 

The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 145 

Alaric in Italy 147 

The Wife of Asdrubal 149 

HeliocUirus in the Temple 150 

Night Scene in Genoa. From Sismondi's " Republiques 

Italiemies" 151 

The Troubadour and Richard Coeur de Lion 153 

The Death of Conradin 155 

Critical Annotations 157 

fHB eCEPTIC i58 

Critical Annotations 1G5 

BTJFEaSTITION .\ND llEVBLATION 167 

ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

The Basvigliana of Monti 171 

The Alcesiis of Alfieri 174 

II Conte di Carmagnola. A Tragedy. By Alessandro 

Manzon'. 178 

Caius Gracchus. A Tragedy. By Monti 187 

PATRIOTIC EFFU.S10NS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. 

V/ncenzo da Filicaja 191 

'Jarlo Maria Maggi 191 

Alessandro Marchetti 192 



Alessandro Pegolotti .■ 199 

Francesco Maria de Conti. — The Shore of Africa 199 

Jeu-d' Esprit on the word " Barb" 199 

Tlie Fever Dream 193 

DAUTMOOR 19fi 

WELSH ^iELODIES. 

The Harp of Wales. Introductory Stanzas 199 

Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans 200 

The Green Isles of Ocean 200 

The Sea Song of Gafran 200 

The Mirlas Horn 201 

The Hull of Cynddylan 201 

The Lament of Llywarch Hen 202 

Grufydd's Feast 202 

The Cambrian in America 203 

Taliesin's Prophecy 203 

Owen Glyndwr's War Song 203 

Prince Madoc's Farewell 204 

Caswallon's Triumph 204 

Howel's Song 205 

The Mountain Fires 205 

Eryri Wen 205 

Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. 206 

The Dying Bard's Propliecy 206 

The Fair Isle. For the Melody called the " Welsh 

Ground " .- 207 

The Rock of Cader Idris 207 

THE VESPERS OP PALERMO 208 

Critical Annotations 249 

Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third 244 

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The Marenima 248 

A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 251 

The Caravan in the Deserts 267 

ftlarius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 269 

A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 270 

Belshazzar's Feast 276 

The Last Constantine 278 

Critical Annotations 292 

The League of the Alps ; or, the Meeting on the Field 

of Grulli 292 

SONGS OF THE CID. 

I'lie Cid's Departure into Exile 297 

TheCid's Death Bed 297 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 298 

TheCid's Rising 299 

GREEK SONGS. 

The Storm of Delphi 300 

The Bowl of Liberty 301 

The Voice of Scio 301 

The Spartans' March 302 

The Urn and Sword 302 

The Myrtle Bough 303 



CON TENTS 



21 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Page 

On a Flower from the Field of Griitli 303 

On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 303 

Tlie Chieftain's Son 304 

A Fragment 304 

England's Dead 304 

The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, 
fjr Meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 

29, 1822 305 

I'ne Voice of Spring 306 

Elysium 308 

The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue 309 

The Tomhsof Platiea 310 

The View from Castri 310 

The Festal Hour 311 

Song of the Battle of Morgarten 312 

Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal, and 
his Army, In Africa. Translated from the Span- 
ish of Herrera 314 

SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL 315 

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 322 

Advertisement by the Author 392 

Critical Annotations 354 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

'ong. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 355 

Alp Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 356 

The Cross of the South 356 

The Sleeper of Marathon 357 

To Miss F. A. L., on her Birthday 357 

Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same. . . 357 

To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 357 

From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega 358 

From the Italian of Sanna/.aro 358 

Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. 
Translated from the Fifth Book of the Liisiad of 

Camoens 358 

\ Dirge 360 

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

To Venus 360 

Tt) bis Attendant 360 

To Delius 360 

To the Fountain of Bandusia. 361 

To Faunus 361 

DE CHATILLON; or, the CRUSADERS 361 

Critical Annotations 377 

THE FOREST SANCTUARY 378 

Critical Annotations 401 

LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 

Moorish Bridal Song 402 

The Dird'8 Release 402 

The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 403 

Valkynur Song 405 

/"he Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition ... 406 

Swiss Song, on the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle.. 406 

The Messenger Bird 407 

fcnswer to " The Messenger Bird," by an American 

duaJcer Lady 407 



Pag« 

The Stranger in Louisiana 408 

The Isle of Founts.' An Indian Tradition 408 

The bended Bow 409 

He never smiled again 410 

CoBur de Lion at the Bier of his Father 410 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree 419 

The Wild Himtsman 412 

Brandenburg Harvest Song. From the German of La 

Jlolte Fouqiie 413 

The Shade ol' Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 4Li 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile 41-4 

Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue 414 

Greek Parting Song 415 

The Sulidte Mother 417 

The Farewell to the Dead 418 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I go, sweet Friends 418 

Angel Visits 419 

Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy Leaves gath- 
ered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the 

Rhine 415 

To (me of the Author's Children on his Birthday 420 

On a similar Occasion 420 

Christ stilling the Tempest 420/ 

Epitaiih over the Grave of two Brothers 49C 

Monumental Inscription 491 

The Sound of the Sea 42» 

The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chsntrsy's Statue 

of Lady Louisa Russell 42S 

A Dirge 42S 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 422 

English Soldier's Song of Memory. To the Air of " Am 

Rhein, Am Rhein ! " 493 

Haunted Ground 423 

The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the 

Memoirs of John Hunter 424 

Stanzas to the Memory of * * * 425 

The Vaudois Valleys 495 

Song of the Spanish Wanderer 496 

The Contadina. Written for a Picture 426 

Troubadour Song 426 

The Treasures of the Deep 426 

Bring Flowers 42" / 

The Crusader's Return 428 

Thekla's Song ; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the 

German of Schiller 429 

The Revellers 429 

The Conqueror's Sleep 430 

Our Lady's Well 430 

The Parting of Summer 431 

The Songs of our Fathers 432 

The World in the Open Air , 43S3 

Kindred Hearts 433 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 433 

Casablanca 434 

The Dial of Flowers 434 

Our Daily Paths 435 ' 

The Cross in the Wilderness 436 

Last Rites 437 

The Hebrew Mother 438 

The Wreck 439 

The Trumpet 439 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School 448 

The Hour of Death 44C 

The Lost Pleiad 441 



rnge 

The Cliffs of Dover 441 

The Graves of Mnrtyre ; 4^9 

. The Hour of Prayer. 442 

The Voice of Homo to the Prodigal 442 

(The Wakening 443 

'The ISree/.e from Plmre 443 

The Dying Improvisator 444 

piusic of Yesterday 445 

The Forsaken Hearth 445 

The Dreamer 446 

The Wings of the Dove 446 

Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 447 

The Boon of Memory 447 

Dramatic Scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 448 

RECORDS OF WOMAN. 

Arabella Stuart 449 

The Bride of the Greek Isle 453 

The Bride's Farewell 453 

The Switzer's Wife 455 

Froperzia Rossi 457 

Gertrude ; or, Fidelity till Death 459 

Imelda 460 

Edith. A Tale of the Woods 461 

The Indian City 464 

The Peasant Girl of tlie Rhone 466 

Indian Woman's Deatli Song 468 

Joan of Arc in Rheims 469 

Pauline 470 

Juana 471 

The American Forest Girl ,472 

Costanza 473 

Madeline. A Domestic Tale 475 

The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 476 

The Memorial Pillar 477 

The Grave of a Poetess 478 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Homes of England 479 

The Sicilian Captive 479 

Ivan the Czar 481 

Carolan's Prophecy 482 

The Lady of the Castle. From the " Portrait Gallery," 

an unfinished Poem 483 

The Mourner for the Barmecides 484^ 

The Spanish Chapel 485 

The Kaiser's Feast l . . ; 486 

Tasso and his Sister ^.. 487 

Ulla i or, The Adjuration .."... 488 

To Wordsworth 489 

A Monarch's Death Bed - 489 

To the Memory of Heber 490 

The Adopted Child 490 

Invocation v 491 

KBrner and his Sister 491 

The Death Day of Kbrner 492 

An Hour of Romanre 493 

A Voyager's Dream of Land 493 

The Etflgies 494 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.. 495 

The Spirit's Mysteries 495 

The Departed 496 

The Palm Tree 497 

The Child's Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of 

Chanuey'8 497 



Pae« 

The Sunbeam 498 / 

Breathings of Spring 498 

The Illuminated City 499 

The Ppellsof Home 499 

Roman Giri's Song 500 

The Distant Ship 500 

The Birds of Passage 501 »'- 

The Graves of a Household 501 

Mozart's Recpiiem 50Q 

1'lie Image in Lava 509 

Christmas Carol 503 

A Father reading the Bible 503 

'I'he Meeting of the Brothers 504 

The Last Wish 504 

Fairy Favors 505 

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

A Spirit's Return 506 

The Lady of Provence 50» 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro 511 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 512 

To a Departed Spirit 513 

The Chamois Hunter's Love 513 

The Indian with his Dead Child 514 

Song of Emigration 515 

The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother 515 

The Return 516 

The Vaudois' Wife 517 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow 518 

Thekia at her Lover's Grave 518 

The Sisters of Scio 519 

Bernardo del Carpio 519 

The Tonil) of Madame Langhans 521 

The Exile's Dirge 521 

The Dreaming Child 523 

The Charmed Picture 523 

Parting Words 523 

The Message to the Dead 523 

The Two Homes 524 

The Soldier's Death Bed 524 

The Image in the Heart 525 

The Land of Dreams 526 

Woman on the Field of Battle 526 

The Deserted House 527 

The Stranger's Heart 528 

To a Remembered Picture 528 

Come Home 529 

The Fountain of Oblivion 529 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Bridal Day 530 

The Ancestral Song 531 

The Magic Glass .532 

Corinne at the Capitol 532 

The Ruin 533 

The Minster 534 

The Song of Night 534 

The Stonn Painter in his Dungeon 535 

The Two Voices 536 

The Parting Ship 536 

The Last Tree of the Forest 537 

The Streams 538 

The Voice of the Wind 539 

The Vigil of Arms 539 

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey..... 54fl 



CONTENTS. 



23 



Kature's Farewell 541 

The Beings of the Mind 541 

The Lyre's Lament 542 

Tasso's Coronation 543 

The Better Land 543 

The Wounded Eagle 544 

Sadness and Mirth 544 

The Niglitingale's Death Song 545 

Tlie Diver 545 

The Requiem of Genius 546 

Triumphant Music 547 

Second Sight 547 

The Sea Bird flying inland 548 

The Sleeper 548 

The Mirror in the Deserted Hall 548 

To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Cluaker Poet. . 549 

The Star of the Mine 549 

Washington's Statue. Sent from England to America. 549 

A Thought of Home at Sea. Written for Music 550 

To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law 550 

To an Orphan 550 

Hymn by the Sick Bed of a Mother 551 

Where is the Sea.' Song of the Greek Islander in Exile 551 

To my own Portrait 551 

No more 552 

Thought from an Italian Poet 552 

Passing away 552 

The Angler 553 

Death and the Warrior 553 

Song for an Air by Hummel 554 

To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, Son of the 
Duke of Atholl, who died in the Cause, and la- 
mented by the People, of Greece 554 

The Broken Chain 554 

The Shadow of a Flower 555 

Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull 555 

The Bell at Sea 556 

The Subterranean Stream 556 

The Silent Multitude 557 

The Antique Sepulchre 557 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 558 

The Memory of the Dead 558 

He walked with God 559 

The Rod of Aaron 559 

The Voice of God 559 

The Fountain of Marah 560 

The Penitent's Offering 560 

The Sculptured Children 560 

Woman and Fame , 561 

A Thought of the Future 562 

The Voice of Music 562 

The Angel's Greeting 563 

A Farewell to Wales 563 

Impromptu Lines, addressed to Miss F. A. L., on re- 
ceiving from her some Flowers when confined by 

Illness 563 

A Parting Song 564 

We return no more 564 

To a Wandering Female Singer 564 

Lights and Shades 565 

The Palmer 565 

The Child's First Grief 565 

To the New Born 566 

The Death Song of Alcestis 566 

The Home of Love 567 

Ccoke and Flowers 568 



Pag« 

For a Picture of St. Cecilia attended by Angels 569 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a Pic- 
ture of Eastlake's 570 

The Child's Return from the Woodlands 570 

The Faith of Love 571 

The Sister's Dream 571 

A Farewell to Abbotsford 572 

O'Connor's Child 572 

The Prayer for Life 573 

The Welcome to Death 573 

The Victor 574 

Lines written for the Album at Rosanna 574 

The Voice of the Waves. Written near the Scene of a 

recent Shipwreck 575 

The Haunted House 575 

The Shepherd Poet of the Alps 576 

To the Mountain Winds 578 

The Procession 57£ 

The Broken Lute 579 

The Burial in the Desert 580 

To a Picture of the Madonna 581 

A Thought of the Rose 583 

Dreams of Heaven 562 

The Wish 583 

Written after visiting a Tomb, near Woodstock, in the 

County of Kilkenny 583 

Epitaph 584 

Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco 584 

To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist 584 

O ye Hours 584 

The Freed Bird 585 

Marguerite of France 585 

The Wanderer 587 

Tlie Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland ........ 587 

To Caroline 588 

The Flower of the Desert 588 

HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 

Introductory Verses 589 

The Rainbow 539 

The Sun 589 

The Rivers 590 

The Stars ". , .'>90 

The Ocean 591 

The Thunder Storm 591 

The Birds 599 

The Skylark. Child's Morning Hymn 592 

The Nightingale. Child's Evening Hymn 59.T 

The Northern Spring 593 

Paraphrase of Psalm 148 .5fl3 

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC 

NATIONAL LYRICS. 

The Themes of Song 594 

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory To 

the Air of" Am Rliein ! Am Rhein! " 595 

A Song of Delos 595 

Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 596 

Naples. A Song of the Siren 596 

The Fall of D'Assas. A Ballad of France 597 

The Burial of William the Conqueror 591 

SONOS OF A GUAKDIAN SPIRIT. 

Near thee, still near thee 598 

O, droop thou not 59V 



Z4 



CONTENTS. 



SONGS OF SPAIN. Poge 

Ancient Battle Song 599 

ThoZeRri Maid 599 

The Ri(. Verde Song COO 

Seek by the Silvery Darro COO 

Spanish Evening Hymn 600 

Bird that art singing on Ebro's Side 600 

Moorish Oathering Song COl 

The Song of Mina's Soldiers COl 

Mother! O, sing me to rest >.... COl 

There are Sounds in the dark Roncesvalles 601 

SONGS FOR SUMMEK HOtJKS. 

And I too in Arcadia 601 

The Wandering Wind 602 

Ye are not missed, fair Flowers 602 

The Willow Song COS 

Leave me not yet C03 

The Orange Bough COS 

The Stream set free 603 

The Summer's Call 604 

O, Skylark, for thy Wing 604 

80X68 OF CAPTIVITY. 

Introduction 605 

The Brother's Dirge COS 

The Alpine Horn 605 

ye Voices 606 

1 dream of all Things free 606 

Far o'er the Sea, C06 

The Invocation 606 

The Song of Hope. 607 

HISCELIiANEOUS LTBIC3. 

The Call to Battle 607 

Mignon's Song. Translated from Goethe C07 

The Sisters. A Ballad 608 

The Last Song of Sappho 609 

Dirge. 609 

A Song of the Rose 610 

Night-blowing Flowem 611 

The Wanderer and the Night Flowers 611 

Echo Song 611 

The Muffled Drum 612 

The Swan and the Skylark...'. 619 

The Curfew Song of England 613 

Genius singing to Love 614 

Music at a Death Bed 615 

Marshal Sclnverin's Grave C15 

The Fallen Lime Tree 616 

The Bird at Sea 616 

i'he Dying Girl and Flowers 616 

The Ivy Song 617 

The Music of St. Patrick's 617 

Kecne ; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son. . . 618 

Far away 618 

The Lyre and Flower 619 

Bister ! since [ met thee last 619 

The Lonely Bird 619 

Dirge at Sea 619 

Pilgrim 's Sonj to the Evening Star 620 

"he Meeting of the Ships 690 

Come away 620 

Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 621 

Uusic from Shore 621 



Fagi 

Look on me with thy cloudless Eyes.. . .' 621 

If thou hast crushed a Flower 621 

Brightly hast tnoii fled 629 

The Bed of Heath..... 629 

Fairy Song 622 

What woke the buried Sound 023 

Sing to me. Gondolier 623 

Look on me thus no more 623 

O'er the Far Blue Mountains G23 

thou Breeze of Spring 623 

Come to me, Dreams of Heaven 624 

Good Night 624 

Let her depart 624 

How can that Love so deep, so lone 625 

Water Lilies. A Fairy Song 625 

The Broken Flower C25 

1 would we had not met again 625 

Fairies' Recall 625 

The Rock beside the Sea 626 

O y e Voices gone 026 

By a Mountain Stream at Rest C26 

Is there some Spirit sighing 626 

The Name of England 627 

Old Norway. A Mountain War Song 627 

Come to me, gentle Sleep 627 

SCENES AND HYMNS OF L^fE. 

Preface (SJ8 

The English Martyrs. A Scene of the Days of Queen 

Mary 628 

Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 632 

Cathedral Hymn 634 

Wood Walk and Hymn 636 

Prayer of the Lonely Student 638 

The Traveller's Evening Song 639 

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests 639 

Easter Day in a Mountain Churchyard 641 

The Child reading tlie Bible 643 

A Poet's Dying Hymn 644 

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott 645 

The Prayer in the Wilderness 646 

Prisoners' Evening Service. A Scene of the French 

Revolution 647 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Perse- 
cution 649 

Prayer at Sea after Victory 650 

The Indian's Revenge. Scene in the Life of a Mora 

vian Missionary / 650 

Evening Song of the Weary 653 

The Day of Flowers 653 

Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return, in 

the Olden Time 655 

The Painter's Last Work 656 

A Prayer of Affection 657 

Mother's Litany by the Sick Bed of a Child 657 

Night Hymn at Sea. The Words written for a Melody 

by Felton 658 

SONNETS 

FEMALE CHARACTERS OP SCRIFTUIta. 

Invocation 658 

Invocation continued 658 

The Song of iMiriam 659 

Ruth 659 



CONTENTS. 



2f 



The Vigil of Rizpah.j^. 659 

The Reply of tlie Shunamite Woman 659 

Th« Annunciation 6^59 

The Song of the Virgin 660 

TJie Penitent anointing Christ's Feet... 660 

Marj- at tlie Feet of Clirist 660 

The -Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus 6C0 

riie Memorial of Mary 660 

The Women of Jerusalem ai the Cross 661 

Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 061 

Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection . . 661 

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 

The Sacred Harp 661 

To a Family Uilile 662 

Repose of a Floly Family. From an old Italian Picture 669 

Picture uf the Infant Christ with Flowers 662 

On a Remembered Picture of Christ — an Ecce Homo, 

by Leonardo da Vinci 662 

The Cliildren whom Jesus blessed 662 

Mountain Sanctuaries 663 

The Lilies of the Field 663 

The Birds of the Air..... 663 

The Raising of the Widow's Son 663 

The Olive Tree 664 

The Darkness of the Crucifixion 664 

Places of Worship 664 

Old Church in an English Park 664 

A Church in North Wales 664 

Louise Schepler 665 

To the Same 665 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Two Monuments 665 

The Cottage Girl 666 

The Battle Field 666 

A Penitent's Return 667 

A Thought of Paradise 667 

Let us depart 668 

On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross. Painted by 

Velasquez 669 

Communings with Thought 669 

The Water Lily 670 

The Song of Penitence. Unfinished 670 

Troubadour Song 671 

The English Boy 671 

To the Blue Anemone 679 

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 

Scenes from " Tasso " 672 

Scenes from " Iphigenia." A Fragment 678 

4 



RECORDS OP THE SPRING OP 1834. 

Pag« 

A Vernal Thought 679 

To the Sky 679 

On Records of Immature Genius 679 

On Watching the Flight of a Skylark 680 

A Thought of the Sea 680 

Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening 680 

The River CI wyd, in North Wales 6SC 

Orchard Blossoms 680 

To a Distant Scene 68j 

A Remembrance of Grasmere 681 

Thoughts connected with Trees 681 

The Same 68' 

On reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 68i 

A Thought at Sunset , 682 

Images (if Patriarchal Life 689 

Attraction of the East 682 

To an Aged Friend 689 

A Happy Hour 682 

Foliage 683 

A Prayer 683 

Pra'ier continued 683 

Sleraorial of a Conversation 683 



RECORDS OF THE AUTtTJiN OF 1834. 



683 



The Return to Poetry 

To Silvio Pellico, on reading his " Prigione " 684 

To the Same, released 684 

On a Scene in the Dargle 684 

On the Datura Arborea , 685 

On reading Coleridge's Epitaph 685 

Design and Performance 685 

Hope of future Communion with Nature 685 

Dreams of the Dead .- 686 

The Poetiy of the Psalms 686- 

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION 68tt 

The Huguenot's Farewell 688 

Antique Greek Lament 688 

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

Intellectual Powers 689 

Sickness like Night 689 

On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death 690 

Remembrance of Nature 69C 

Flight of the Spirit 690 

Flowers 690 

Recovery 693 

Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs. Remans a few 

Days before her Death 69J 



MEMOIR 



OF 



FELICIA HE MANS. 



BY 



MRS L. H. SIGOURNEY. 



(27) 



MEMOIR. 



It is fitting that this complete edition of the works of Mrs. Hemans, caknlated hy 
its tasteful exterior and reduced" price to be acceptable and accessible to all, should 
commence with some delineation of her life, that she may be loved as a friend, while 
she is admired as a poet. 

Felicia Dorothea Browne was of mingled Erse and Tuscan blood ; her father 
being a native of Ireland, and her mother of Italian and German ancestry. She 
was the fifth in succession of a family of seven, and born in Liverpool, (England,) 
September 25, 1793. Beauty and precocity were her gifts from nature. At the 
age of six, Shakspeare became her favorite author ; and the child-genius, having dis- 
covered a congenial haunt among the spreading branches of an apple tree, delighted 
to climb to her airy and solitary studio with some one of the volumes of the Bard 
of Avon. There, like a bird, nestling among the green leaves, or inhaling the vernal 
fragrance of unfolding petals, she fed on the richer germs of fancy and of song. Some 
of her earliest and even latest effusions refer affectionately to this unique and 
sequestered arbor, — 

" 'Mid faint-streaked blossoms wHte, 
And robin's nest, and tlie bee's dreamy chime." 

A removal of the family to Wales, before her seventh birthday, gave her mind 
the prompting influences of romantic and sublime scenery. Imbosomed in a range 
of mountains, and within sound of the " wide-rolling, melancholy main," that tinges 
so much of the imagery of her poems, rose the spacious old mansion, where for the 
next nine years she found a happy home. There, amid fond intercourse with brothers 
and sisters, the treasures of an extensive library, and the nurturing care of a mothet 
well qualified tc conduct the education of genius, passed her unclouded childhood. 

(29) 



80 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

At the age of eleven, she was taken by her parents to spend the winter in London, 
and freely indulged in visits to works of art and other places of interest. Those 
who witnessed her first introduction to a gallery of sculpture were struck by hei 
impulsive " Hush ! hush ! " as, with her finger pressed on her lip, she seemed herself 
the personification of Beauty in silence. Amid the extensive collections of paintings 
in which the baronial establishments of England abound, her correct appreciation of 
their merits, and the variety of her classical and mythological knowledge, surprised 
all who saw that she was yet but a child. Still, surrounded by the novelties and 
attractions of the great metropolis, her heart turned to her rural home, and every 
letter to the dear fraternal group was tinged by the desire to enjoy with them the 
household sport and the mountain ramble. A similar sojourn in London, the follow- 
ing winter, though it familiarized her with the varied imagery and moving figures on 
the " world's wind-shaken tapestry," had no effect in diminishing the love of nature, 
which was an integral element of her being. 

Her intellectual training, within the quiet sanctuary of home and under maternal 
supervision, progressed prosperously. The study of languages aided her development 
of mind and power of expression. With French and Italian she became early 
familiar, to which she afterwards added Spanish and Portuguese. She also acquired 
the rudiments of German, and continued in future years to deepen her knowledge of 
that noble language, which, it was remarked by critical observers, gave to her own 
productions an added tone of sublimity. In her admiration of it, she partook some- 
what of the enthusiasm of the learned and early-summoned Elizabeth Smith, who used 
to say that only a " few of the very best people were worthy to understand German." 

Felicia was assisted in her acquisition of knowledge by what often appertains to 
genius — a wonderful memory. One of her brothers, who had been incredulous in 
some degree with regard to her retentive powers, was both convinced and surprised 
by her committing the whole of Heber's poem on Europe, comprising four hundred 
and twenty lines, in an hour and twenty minutes, though she had never seen it 
before. This she repeated without mistake or hesitation, and apparently without 
effort. 

Though the erroneous theory, that genius may dispense with application and disci- 
pline, was avoided in her culture, yet sufficient time was allowed by her judicious 
mother for free exercise among the works of nature and the attainment of feminine 
accomplishments. She disclosed a strong taste for drawing, while yet a child, in 
which she would doubtless have become distinguished, had it been made a prom- 
inent branch of education. She sketched boldly from nature, in pencil or Indian ink, 
having a vivid perception of whatever was picturesque or grand in scenery, with a 
correctness and length of vision almost as remarkable as her grasp and compass of 
memory. To music she was keenly susceptible, and played well on harp and piano 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 31 

accompanying them with a clear, melodious voice. She excelled in strains of a pen 
sive character, and also in such national airs as embalmed tradition or suggested 
noble sentiment. These she decidedly preferred to such as merely exhibit superiority 
of voice, or startle by brilliance of execution. She possessed a peculiary soft and 
sustained touch, which gave the piano almost the swell of the organ ; while her tender 
melody of tone in the Welsh and Spanish music, as well as in some touching airs 
brought from Germany by her eldest brother, who learned them there by ear for hia 
idolized sister, lingered in the hearts of many who had listened to her, long after she 
had become a denizen of the silent tomb. 

Yet, amid all her zealous devotion to science and to art, poetry was the natural 
breath and expression of her soul. Its impulsive promptings were felt in the lonely 
walk or the convivial circle, amid intense communings with the beautiful in thought, 
or the simple drapery of life's passing occasions. It spoke in, and through her, 
because Heaven bade it. From the age of eight, when she first began to weave 
ideas and feelings into tuneful numbers, to the latest steps of her weary pilgrimage, 
it was a changeless delight and solace. The appellation of poet was early bestowed 
on her, for her effusions had been freely scattered among friends and relatives, 
whenever their joys or sorrows elicited her sympathies. At their suggestion, a 
selection of these effusions was published in a quarto form, before she had numbered 
her fifteenth birthday. 

But what had been admired in manuscript by the partial eye did not propitiate 
strangers or critics, and a verdict on the adventurous volume was pronounced with 
some severity. Had she been simply an aspirant for fame, or moved only by ambi- 
tion to taste the waters of Castaly, this sudden repulse might have moved either to 
despair, or to sarcastic retort, as in the case of the youthful Byron. Yet it touched 
her gentle and susceptible spirit only with a slight chill, and then the tide of spon- 
taneous song flowed on as free as ever. Like a stone cast harshly into a tuneful 
brook, it made the gushing waters that surmounted it more clear and sonorous. 

About this period, her poetry assumed a martial cast. Trumpets, and banners, and 
blood-red fields gave it tone and color. This was not the natural voice of her own 
muse, but of the strong sisterly sympathy with which she followed her two elder 
brothers in the perilous daring of their military profession. One of them was in the 
campaign under Sir John Moore, and her imagination, kindled by the love coeval 
with waking life, cast over all his deeds and dangers the illusions of chivalry. Her 
poem of " England and Spain, or Valor and Patriotism," written in the heroic 
measure, is, both for legendary research and elevation of sentiment, an unparalleled 
production for a girl of fourteen. Some of its passages have the harmony of Pope, 
with the spirit of Dryden. Its closing invocation, that He who stays the whirlwind 
and the thunder would again send to earth the sacred olive, and restore the festal 



32 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

harmony of nature's prime, sliows how little her peaceful and tuneful spirit waa in 
unison with brazen-throated war. 

Her residence at Bronwylfa, in Flintshire, whither the family removed in 1809, 
was favorable to the healthful expansion of genius, by combining a sufficient degree 
of social intercourse with solitary study. Its bold and beautiful scenery was 
both congenial to her taste and exciting to her imagination. Thus surrounded and 
exhilarated, the joyous versatility of her nature flowed forth, and sparkled without 
alloy. With the gay she was gay, with children a playmate, with the sorrowful 
sympathetic, on the mountain height an enthusiast, amid the desolate ruin contem- 
plative and serene ; at all times radiant with happiness, and dispensing it like the 
blessed sunbeam. 

Exceedingly beautiful was she in her unclouded youth. On her fair rounded cheek 
was the tint of the opening rose ; her eyes were sufiused with brilliance ; natural 
curls, of a rich sunny brown, fell in profusion over brow and shoulder ; every move- 
ment bespoke grace, every feature glowed with intelligent and varying expression. 
At the age of fifteen, when each unfolding charm presaged a still brighter bloom, she 
became acquainted with Captain Hemans, an English officer, who was introduced to 
her family while on a visit in the neighborhood. The most impassioned admiration 
on his part was the I'esult, and its fervent expression from a young man of fine 
person and education was not lost on an artless, susceptible heart. A romantic 
imagination endued him with all the elements and attractions of chivalry, and the 
love that he professed was reciprocated. The anxious scrutiny of her nearest friends, 
who felt that the character of the man who should take charge of the happiness of 
one so young, so endowed, and so unsophisticated, ought to be thoroughly under- 
stood, as well as remarkably balanced, caused them to rejoice that the intercourse 
was not of long continuance. He was recalled with his regiment to Spain, and 
during three years they never met. Yet it would seem that each had engraven the 
image of the other on the heart's tablet as with a diamond's point, and that the soli- 
tary musing of long absence deepened every touch and softened every shadow. 

It was in 1812 that Captain Hemans returned to England, and proceeded imme- 
diately to "Wales. The constant love so secretly and faithfully cherished drew new 
ardor from every interview. Both were so fully persuaded that the happiness of life 
depended upon their union, that all objections were silenced, and it was permitted to 
take place ere the bride had reached her nineteenth birthday. Bright hopes cast a 
fairy coloring on all around, as with woman's perfect trust she left parents and 
kindred to make an Eden home for him whom she had chosen as her " more than 
brother, and her next to God." 

Daventry, in Northamptonshire, was fixed on as their place of residence. Captain 
Hemans having there a military appointment. In its scenery she forfeited the wild 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 33 

sublimity of her beloved Wales, but was moved to admiration by some of the old 
English baronial halls and ivy-mantled churches, whose quaint st;yle of architecture 
revivilied historic associations, and gratified her taste for antiquity. This spot was 
also conseci'ated by her attainment of the climax of woman's happiness, the joys of 
maternity — those hallowed joys that spread fresh greenness over the whole soul, and 
which, in this pilgrimage of cloud and sunbeam, it were a misfortune to have missed. 
What unspeakable delight must she, whose strains are replete with the highest aDf* 
holiest afiections, have derived from this inexhaustible fountain ! 

" O, love bids thee welcome, the love that hath smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child, 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pourmg out joy on thy sunny head." 

In the course of the year 1813, Captain Hemans, in consequence of a transfer of 
military position, returned to Wales, and with his family was domesticated at 
Bronwylfa. Their heartfelt welcome was enhanced by the presence of the beautiful 
infant, Arthur, the object of admiration and delight to every inmate of that pleasant 
abode. Especially to the accomplished and warm-hearted grandmother did his 
smiles and winning ways • recall the pleasures of earlier years, when her own little 
ones gambolled at her side, a perpetual wellspring of hope and joy. 

The life of Mrs. Hemans was now devoted to domestic retirement. A rapidly- 
Increasing family made constant demands upon her attention as well as physical 
vigor. Yet still, with surprising energy she kept intellectual improvement stead- 
fastly in view, and the spirit of song brought her its solace, oft amid the watches of 
the night, as well as during the cares of the day. She read much, and her perse- 
vering industry in extracting and transcribing might have filled the alcove of a 
library. She continued to translate from the languages acquired in early years, to 
which she added the Latin, pursuing its study with persevering ardor during such 
intervals of time as she could secure amid the pressure of many and important 
duties. Her love of the classics deepened and extended itself, and began to impart 
a more decided character to her effusions. There was an evident transition from the 
tread of hostile armies — the "pomp and circumstance of war" — to the graceful 
mythological fictions of Greece, and the stern sublimity of Rome, in its unbowed 
and better days. 

In 1816, when at the age of twenty- three, her poems on modern Greece and the 

Restoration of Art in Italy were given to the public, and won general favor. 

Critical reviews, as well as individual suffrage from the highest sources, attested their 

excellence. Still, amid the tide of popular applause, she was diffident of her own 

6 



84 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 



powers, and, in the choice of subjects, lingered amid the legends of the middle ages, 
even after she had in some measure " brolien the spell of dim antiquity." We 
cannot but marvel at the variety and depth of her research, and her invincible 
perseverence, especially when we remember that in the course of six years she 
became the mother of five sons, and remember how often our own sex allow far 
slighter claims to obstruct or extinguish even common intellectual advances. 

In 1818, a peculiar and painful event marked the history of her life. Captain 
Ilemans, who supposed that a warmer climate might be more agreeable to his health, 
left her for Italy, and took up his abode at Rome. It might not have been fully 
contemplated, at the time of his departure, that this separation should be permanent. 
But so it proved ; he never returned, and, during the seventeen years that remained 
to her on earth, saw her face no more. 

Ere this period, it might have been evident to a close observer that uncongeniality 
and indifference were stealing over the current of his affections. Those quiet mental 
pleasures in which she found relaxation from care he gradually ceased to appreciate 
or to sustain. lie had neither the wisdom to protect the genius that was casting a 
halo around his own name, nor the generosity to rejoice in those honors that were its 
natural fruit, it has been said that he surrendered himself to literary jealousy ; and 
though this might not exhibit the violence of that passion when it springs from 
suspicions of a grosser nature, yet it as fatally extinguished love, and as fixedly settled 
into dislike or aversion. )^^The pangs that such a change must have wrought in a 
heart nurtured from cradle hours by the fondest sympathy, and from its own 
exquisite structure involving the necessity of loving and being loved, are not for 
us to depict, y 

'As this cloud shut over her, rupturing the most sacred ties, her nearest kindred 
gathered around her, tenderly striving to uphold and shelter the deserted spirit. She 
wasted not her own energies in unavailing complaint or weak repining, but rallied 
them to endure and to labor, for the sake of the children now committed to her sole 
care. Heaven also mercifully granted that maternal duty, and the clear fountain o! 
poesy in the depth of her own soul, should reveal new powers to assuage sadness 
and cheer desolation. 

A renewed study of German lore, by absorbing a portion of her thoughts, seemed 
to take the form of consolation. Many interesting works in that language were sent 
her by her eldest brother, then connected with the embassy at Vienna. By closer 
intimacy with the history and habitudes of that richly imaginative people, she 
believed that she discerned a spirit of liberality, illustrating her own favorite idea 
of the brotherhood, that ought to pervade the noble field of literature. 

The ancient Cambrian annals, also, profitably occupied some intervals of time. 
Wlule increasing her knowledge of their language, she imbibed a fervent admiration 



MEMOIR OF MRS) HEMANS. 35 

of the character of the old Welsh bards, whose motto, " In the face of the sun, and 
in the eye of light.," was singularly consonant to her own truthful and transparent 
nature. Her views of the elevating influences of poesy were in som.e measure 
illustrated by the position assigned to the ancient masters of the Cambrian lyre, who 
v/evG not permitted to mingle in political or religious strife, in whose presence no 
weapon must be unsheathed for conflict, and at whose appearance, clad in their 
ftzure 7.obe as heralds of peace between contending armies, the wild battle cry 
was hushed. 

In 1821, Mrs. Hemans sustained the loss of a favorite brother, Claude Scott 
Browne, one year younger than herself, and the endeared playmate of infancy. Hi& 
death took place at the age of 27, in Kingston, Upper Canada, where he was dis- 
charging with ability the duties of an oflSce which he held under government. The 
same region of the western world also received the last breath of her father, who 
died in the city of Quebec, ere her return to Bronwylfa. 

Amid repeated bereavements, and that loneliness of heart that admitted of no 
earthly cure, she was not unhappy, for constant occupation and the divine blessing 
were with her. Constrained by the promptings of genius to give utterance to the 
breath of song, it was evident, to all who witnessed her daily life, how the mother 
predominated over the poet. Her most elaborate and ambitious themes were liable 
to be superseded at any moment by the wants or pleasures of the nursery people 
Arthur's new coat, — George's cough, — a promised walk, — a game at battledore, — 
letters of request to a friend in a distant city to purchase two humming tops of 
ditfering grades of excellence, — " sundry teeth having been drawn in the family, and 
such treasures promised as the rewards of fortitude on these trying occasions." Affec- 
tionate little poems on their respective birthdays, the decoration of the Christmas 
tree, the preparation of the " twelfth-night cake," the direction of their lessons, the 
guidance of their devotions, all gave her a more intense participation in the minuter 
points of their enjoyment and welfare. The epithets of the " noble and gentle child," 
and the sweet descriptions of cradle care and hope, that perpetually recur in her 
strains, prove that she found no pursuit or pleasure a substitute for the holy duties 
and heartfelt satisfactions of the mother. 

But where was he who, in these cares and joys, should have had his portion — 
he who had the right to take his stand by her side, " of the weak hand, but the strong 
heart," with a husband's sympathy P-^Came there no echo to the city of the 
Caesars of the bird-like chirping from his own forsaken nest ? In his dreams, were 
there no little forms, calling " father " — no image of her who was pouring out her 
life stream in watchings over the pledges of their love — no misgivings, no re- 
len tings? We may not know. ^| 

Exfensive repairs and additions to the mansion at Bronwylfa, the property of her 



86 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 



eldest brother, took place in 1822, of which she humorously remarks, " Such a wal 
is there of old f»rates with new grates, in this once tranquil abode, that when I make 
my escape at fall of eve to some of the quiet green fields by which we are sur- 
rounded, and look back at the house, which from a little distance seems, almost like 
Shakspeare's moonlight, to ' sleep upon the bank,' I can scarcely see how so gentle 
looking a dwelling can continue to send forth such an incessant clatter of obstreperous 
eound from its honeysuckle-fringed windows." During these transmutations, while 
her retreat for poetic composition was a small laundry, it was deemed a convenient 
occasion for her two eldest sons, eight and nine years old, to pay a visit to a clergy- 
man whom they loved, and who had formerly assisted in their instruction while a 
resident in the neighborhood of Bronwylfa. 

Slight incidents are these, yet interesting, as throwing light on the daily domestic 
life of a distinguished woman. Arthur and George had never before been absent 
from home. It was, therefore, an event of much importance in their eyes, and con- 
templated with no little pride. A few weeks glided pleasantly away, and then the 
coming of the mother for them was an era still more to be remembered. She 
herself enjoyed and described it with a delight that only mothers can comprehend. 
A drive of twenty miles, through a picturesque region of bold hills, sparkling 
streams, and rich verdure, amid the song of the skylark, and the perfume of 
indigenous ferns and foxgloves, cheered her worn heart, and disposed it for a higher 
pleasure. At length the peaceful rural parsonage appeared, overshadowed by trees. 
Rushing down its green slope were seen two healthful and beautiful boys, wild with 
happiness. They clapped their hands, they shouted in ecstasy, and springing into 
the carriage, covered their mother with kisses. Then followed the warm welcome 
of hospitality, and the dignified earnestness with which the children did the honors 
of the village, anxious that not one of its wonders — church, bridge, bi-ook, or wild 
Oower — should escape attention ; the fascination of the evening homeward ride, and 
the rapturous reunion with grandmamma and the three merry, untravelled little 
brothers in the nursury. 

The sympathy of the children in their mother's poetry, and in its reception by the 
public, was singularly deep and touching.' Every expression of such favor was 
treasured and commented upon by them ; and when any marked distinction was 
accorded, there came a burst of joy as from a nightingale's nest. ^ It was observed 
that her valuation of these honors seemed to spring from the happiness they imparted 
to the dear circle at home. When the prize of the Royal Literary Society Avas 
decreed to her poem of Dartmoor, she thus writes a friend : " Would that yon 
had but seen the children when the prize was announced yesterday ! Arthur sprang 
np from his Latin exercise and shouted aloud. Their acclamations were actually 
deafening; and George said that the excess of his pleasure had really given him a 
beadai'he." 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 37 ! 

The reputation of Mrs. Hemans continued to increase. Criticism was propitious, 
and friendship sprang up in stranger hearts. The aristocratic Byron, and the 
fastidious Jeffrey, applauded her writings, and the learned Milraan gave her advice 
and "ncourageraent. Among the talented of her own sex who expressed approba- 
tion and sympathy were the distinguished names of Hannah More, Joanna Baillie, 
Mary Mitford, and Mary Howitt. The venerable Bishop of St. Asaph, near whose 
palace she resided, and his son-in-law, the gifted Reginald Heber, afterwards the 
prelate, testified deep interest in her and in her children. The chivalry of noble, 
manly natui-es roused itself to throw its shield around a " woman, forsaken, and 
grieved in spirit, and a wife of youth, when she was refused." 

In the spring of 1825 she removed to Rhyllon, a residence opposite Bronwylfa, 
from which it was separated by a beautiful river. Both mansions belonged to her 
brother, and were spacious and commodious. Bronwylfa had been compared to a 
bird's nest peering from a bower of roses, and Rhyllon, after her occupancy, was 
continually amassing some new charm — the climbing ivy, or the clustering vine. The 
family consisted of her mother and four sons, it having been deemed advisable that 
Arthur, then in his thirteenth year, should be placed at school. Her second brother 
and his wife, after an absence of several years in Canada, returned and rejoined her 
circle, surrounding her still more perfectly with those blessed domestic affections in 
which her heart found rest. Never since her unclouded childhood had she been so 
happy as at Rhyllon. Her health was less variable than it had been since her mar- 
riage. She had schooled her sorrowing spirit to silent submission ; her children were 
expanding hopefully ; and she was sustained in those- poetical efforts which were in 
some measure essential to her livelihood, and at all times to her consolation. The 
earliest hours of each day were devoted to the education of her boys : then came a 
season of writing, to which an extended correspondence, and the claims of various 
editors, — for she had become much connected with the periodical press, — gave a 
character of labor Avhich chastened, perhaps, too much the play of fancy. From these 
long mornings of application she would emei-ge with a fresh burst of youthful spirits, 
and enjoy a ramble with her children among the breezy hills, or to a hamlet nestled 
in the hollow of a mountain about two miles from Rhyllon./ Such was her love of 
childhood, and her power of attracting it, that a little peasant girl was wont to steal \ 
from her humble cottage, when she saw the "sweet lady" pass, and confidingly 
placing a tiny hand in hers, walk by her side till her small feet grew weary, and 
then, with many smiles backward cast, turn home again. 

Among the cheering features of her history at this time was the vivid appreciation 
of her poetry on this side of the Atlantic. Boston, our first in Attic taste, was the 
first to discover and hail this daughter of song. Professor Norton, with characteristic 
aobleness, voluntai-ily superintended the publication of an edition of her poems in 



38 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 



that city, and wrote her, that whatever profits accrued from it should be her own, 
The, talented Bancroft, and the eloquent Channing, with others of critical taste and 
elegant scholarship, applauded her genius. C/These suffrages were lo her more / 
precious on account of the difference of creed, as proving the warmth and extent of ,' 
Christian liberality, and serving to establish her own favorite theory, that poetry ■ 
should be the harraonizer and the love teacherA Beautiful are the common meeting 
grounds of literature and benevolence — like the " field of the cloth of gold," where 
foenien embrace, and prejudices are forgotten. \ 

Unspeakably soothing to her burdened spirit were the sympathies thus wafted over 
the ocean billows ; and it was affecting to witness the rejoicing of mother and children 
with her at every parcel that came from America. Anecdotes of her boys now and 
then occur in her letters, showing her own fond affection, and that its effects had not 
been in vain. To the warm-hearted Joanna Baillie, she says, " I had been reading to 
one of my boys Byron's magnificent address to the sea, — 

* Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll ! * , 

He listened in almost breathless attention, and the moment I had finished It, 
exclaimed, ' Very grand, indeed ! But how much finer it would have been, mamma, 
had he said, at the close, that God had measured out all those waters in the hollow 
Df his hand ! ' " 

Charlie, also, the youngest of her flock, is mentioned as seated by her side, and 
reading " "Warton's Death-Bed Scenes " with fhe deepest interest. On asking her 
sxplanation of the word atheist, he exclaimed, in amazement,' " Not believe in God, 
mamma ! Why, who does he expect made the world and his own body ? " 

But the brightness that gleamed upon her at Rhyllon was destined soon to disap- 
pear. The blessed mother who had been an unfailing spirit of strength and hope, in 
all time of her adversity, was to be summoned from her side. It seemed not to have 
entered her mind, or that of her children, that she who had so long exercised for 
them all the patient, watchful love that knew no change or weariness, was ever to die. 
First she slightly faltered in the pleasant walk, then she was missed at the cheerful 
raeal, then from the family altar, till her place was found only in the curtained 
chamber, where with brightening eye she listened to some new strain of her cherished 
daughter, or to the Iray words of that Redeemer in whom was her hope, breathed 
forth in the sweet tones of the most beloved voice ; and then she listened no more 
en eai-lh. 

It was on the evening of the 11th of January, 1827, that the bereaved one, after 
Icng, anxious watching, passed from the silent death chamber to the apartment of her 
children. Hushed and awe-struck, they were gathered closely around the fading fire, 
In her pale, sad face, they saw that all was over. Trained as they had been to turn 



MEMOIR OV MRS. HEMANS. Sfl 

»»-<' •—— — — — — 

to God's blessed book for comfort in affliction, one of the little group, pressing to her 
side, begged permission to read to her a chapter from the Bible.'v Inexpressibly , 
soothing in this bitter hour was the proof that the loved beings for whom she had 
toiled and prayed had learned to know, and even to lead her to, the true fountain 
of consolation. 

" My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, dear friend," she says in a familiar epistle , 
"but, thank God, my composure is returning, so that I am enabled to resume those 
duties that so imperiously call me back to life. I have lost the faithful, watchful, 
patient love that for so many years has been devoted to me and mine ; and I feel 
that the void it has left behind will cause me to bear a yearning heart to the grave." 

Yet she resumed with surprising energy her stated routine of labor, feeling that 
it was not for her to indulge in the listless luxury of grief, though tlie shield that 
interposed between her and the burden of care was withdrawn. In the autumn of 
1828 she removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool, which Avas deemed a rnore favor- 
able place for the education of her boys. The irreparable loss of her mother, and 
the departure of her brother and sister to their distant abode, had so diminished her 
circle, and saddened her home, that it seemed scarcely a home to her. Still, her 
parting from Wales, the green land of song and the region of her happiest years, 
was reluctant and painful, and rendered more deeply so by a separation from her 
two eldest sons. Notwithstanding the desertion of her husband, she continued to 
testify the respect and confidence of a wife, by consulting, him in letters, with regard 
to the ultimate disposal of their children. In conformity to his directions, Arthur 
and George Willoughby, fourteen and fifteen years old, were sent to him at Rome. 
There the first born, the child of so many hopes, slept the sleep that knows no 
waking, two years after his gentle mother was laid in the tomb. He who had 
earliest taught her that holy joy, which finds no symbol in speech, — 

" faded amid Italian flowers*^ 

Tlie first of that bright band." \ 

That true and noble friendship for which England as a nation is so conspicuous, 
gave her kind welcome when she turned thither for refuge and a home. Still, 
her experience as a housekeeper, the first winter after her removal, w/fei somewhat 
discouraging. Her three boys were seized with hoopinH^ough, and in addition 
to the fatigue of nursing them day and night, she herself participated .n that dis- 
tressing disease. Her health, of which she had never at any time been prudently 
considerate, suffered severely ; and the whole invalid group were sent in the spring, 
by command of their physician, to the sea shore for change of air and restoration. 

The ensuing summer she was induced, by urgency of friends, to take a voyage to 
Scotland. i;The time spent in that land of true and warm sympathy was one rf the 



40 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

gold'n threads in the tissue of her darkened j'ears.i Especially was her visit to Sij 
Walter Scott rich in cherished recollections. His cordial greeting to his mountain 
home, and generous admiration of her talents and virtues, reassured her spirits, and 
had a rejuvenating influence upon her health. Tliey roamed together tlirough the 
romantic scenery by which Abbotsford is surrounded, and expatiated on the legendary 
lore of many lands. After one of these excursions, she writes, — 
-* " Thjs day has been one of the happiest, I was going to say — but I am too 
isolated a being to use that word ; yet, at least, one of the pleasantest and most 
cheerfully exciting of my whole life. Again and again shall I think of that walk, 
under tlie old solemn trees that hang over the mountain stream of Yarrow, with Sir 
"Walter beside me, his voice frequently breaking out, as if half unconsciously, into 
some verse of the antique ballads, which he repeats with deep and homely pathos." 

He was delighted with her musical performances, especially the martial airs of 
Wales and Germany, and exulted to lead her to the piano, even when princes were 
his guests. 

" I should say you had too many gifts, Mrs. Hemans," was one of his kind re 
'marks, V" if they were not all used in giving pleasure to others.'^ 

The heart of her boys, whom his hospitable and frank reception made imme- 
diately at home, overflowed with joy and pride at the honors accorded to theii 
idolized mother. " Little Charlie," the youngest, was especially amused, when once, 
on the approach of their party to visit Newark tower, two tourists were seen 
precipitately retreating; and the benignant bard exclaimed, "Ah! Mrs. Hemans, 
they little know what two lions they are running away from." 

At the close of her delightful stay, which she was persuaded to prolong beyond 
her original intention, his farewell words at the gate of Abbotsford were affec- 
tionately treasured : Vj^here are some whom we meet, and should like ever after 
to claim as kith and kin. You are one of these"\ 

In other parts of Scotland her gentle spirit was also made glad. Edinburgh, 
with its society and scenery, left with her pleasing and indelible impressions. She 
was cheered at seeing her children happy, and their loving hearts were in a state 
of constant exultation at finding their " heroine mamma " so highly regarded. It 
has been remarked that she naturally won the love of children whei-evcr she met 
them. Thus it was wJm the aged. She singled them out, and treated them with 
reverence. Her aflTectionate words melted the frosts of years, and revivified dor- 
mant memories. Mackenzie, the white-haired " Man of Feeling," even in his 
brokenness of mind, kindled with vivid recollections at her voice ; and the venerable 
Roscoe, and Sir Robert Liston, rejoiced in her society. Tender and truthful must 
have been that nature, which could alike charm the simplicity of waking life ai>H 
the weariness of its close. 



MEMOIR OP MRS. HEMANS. 41 

It was in June, 1830, that she accomplished what slie had long desired — a tour to 
the lakes of Westmoreland. Tremulous health, and the celebrity which had become 
a burden by depriving her of the time either to meditate or to rest, required this 
recreation. A desire of seeing Wordsworth, whose poetry had become to her an 
enthusiastic study, was another motive for this excursion. His patriarchal manner, 
and the sweet life that he led in his rose and ivy-wreathed bower, enchanted her. 
After somewhat more than a fortnight passed delightfully with him at Rydal Mount, 
she was gratified at discovering that she might secure in his neighborhood a re- 
tired cottage for the remainder of the summer. It was on the banks of the fair 
Winandermere, and bore the appropriate appellation of the " Dove's Nest." From 
this sweet seclusion, she writes, — 

/ " How shall I tell you of all the loveliness by which I am surrounded — all the 

/soothing and holy influences it seems shedding down into my inmost heart? I have 

sometimes feared, within the last two years, that the effect of suffering and of 

adulation, of feelings too highly wrought and too severely tried, would bo to dry 

up within me the fountains of such pure and simple enjoyment. But now^ J 

know that 

'Nature never did betray 

The heart that loved her.' ' 

That sacred " Dove's Nest," on the green shore of the fair lake, with what emotion 
I surveyed it when a traveller in that region ! — with what mournful regret, that I 
might not have come ere its loved habitant had spread her wings to the ark of 
heavenly rest ! i^I beheld her in fancy through the twisted eglantine, a tender per 
eonification of her own descriptive lines, — 



I 



" Mother, with the earnest eye, C 
Ever following silently," -^ 



the gambols of her boys, who some tourist has designated as young eagles, for their swift- 
ness and spirit. 'Almost her own descriptive words seemed audible to my ear : —' 

" See ! there is Claude, climbing the hill above the " Nest ; " Henry with his fishing 
rod; and Charles sketching; while I, in feeling, am even more a child than any 
of them." 

Wordsworth, too, then in the serene philosophy of his seventieth year, awakened 
tlie same admiration that she had expressed of " the beauty of his daily life, in such 
perfect harmony with his poetry." With the same paternal manner that she so 
happily depicted, he led me by the hand over the same grounds adorned by hia 
taste and consecrated by his genius, and spoke of her with a touching tenderness,— 

"Ah, pcor soul! she wrote too much — too much." 



42 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HSmANS. 



Yes, doubtless too rtiuch foi" the physical welfare of a frame bowed more by 
sorrow than time^ "While strong claims were enforcing incessant labor, she was still 
constrained to admit the alarming symptoms of palpitation of an over-wearied heart, 
occasional faintings, a fieiy pain in the breast and side, and flushing of cheek and 
temple after intellectual toil./ Appropriate indeed was the name of this temporary 
retreat, among England's most untroubled waters, to her, who, like a wounded dove, 4 
pressed her wing silently over the pierced side while the lifeblood ebbed away ^ 
If there are any who infer from the occasional buoyancy of her spirits that the 
covered wound was slightly felt, they but reveal their ignorance of woman's heart. 
its depth, its delicacy, or its pride. 



The pearls . 

Lie all too deep in her soul's secret well / 
For the unpausing or impatient hand 
To draw them forth. 



J 



Though no human being could be more free from the weak ostentation that utters 
complaint, or makes a parade of wrongs, merely to invoke sympathy, yet here and 
there, among her writings, traces may be gathered of the secret sorrow that over- 
shadowed her life. Of some of her most popular lyrics she has said, k They are but 
the broken music of a troubled heart.") In a letter of condolence to her friend 
Mary Howitt, she confesses, — 

" I have felt that feverish thirst for the sound of a departed voice or footstep, in 
which the heart seems to die away and become a fountain of tears." 

Still more explicit is that swan-like melody, — 



" Faint spirit, strive no more I 
For thee too strong 
Are outward ill, and wrong ; 
Tliy life, like trampled flowers, 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer bound. 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 
Yes, fade ! fade on ! Thy gift of love shall cling, 

A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, — 
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, — 
All sensitive to pain. 



Though the blasts of advancing years sometimes swept aside the veil that she had 
long so closely drawn, they also mercifully strengthened the root of that piety, by 
which she submitted all to the divine will, and found peace from its discipline. 

In the autumn of 1831 she removed to the neighborhood of Dublin, not haying 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. ' ^ 43 

found the climate of England so congenial to her health as she had anticipated, and 
desiring to be near her brother, who held an office in Ireland, that she might enjoy 
liis counsel and aid with regard to the training of her sons. It was> decided that the 
two elder ones should be placed at a school of high reputation in the vicinity, and 
the youngest continue at home, having his scholastic education superintended by a 
competent and pious student of Trinity College. Here she resumed her usual routine 
of industrious occupation, as far as strength permitted, avoiding the claims of general 
society and the taxes of fame as far as possible. The works of nature and of art, 
and quiet intercourse with a few familiar friends, were all that she needed or desired 
for recreation. Brief excursions during the more genial seasons occasionally varied 
her lot, but failed in their former renovating effect. Gradually impaired vigor, and 
the command of physicians, laid restrictions upon her rigid course of employment. 
She was compelled in a great measure to give up her correspondence, which had 
become extensive and exceedingly laborious. Being obliged almost constantly to 
preserve a recumbent position, the use of the pen became fatiguing ; and she some- 
times retained a poem in her memory for weeks, waiting for strength to enable her to 
commit it to paper. On one occasion she sent for a friend to come with her pencil 
and write a sonnet that had floated through her mind like a singing bee, while she 
lay suffering under the infliction of a blister. 

Still, her constitution retained some remnant of its original elasticity, and the vernal 
season of 1833 seemed to open with a gleam of promise. The depth which her piety 
was continually gaining induced her to mingle with this transient hope of recovery 
a consecration of her genius to those hallowed themes which are connected witli the 
soul and its eternal Source. On being enabled again to attend church and i>artake 
of the sacrament, her sublimated and grateful spirit recurs to the same subject: — 

" My heart is much in this plan, and I hope to enshrine in it whatever I may 
have been endowed with of power and melody." 

We trust the sincere desire was accepted, though time for its fulfilment wa3 
denied, and that she was inly cheered, like the sweet Psalmist of Israel, who, when 
he would fain have built a glorious temple to the Lord, heard the refusal coupled 
with the divine assurance, " Thou didst well that it was in thine heart." 

She was still comforting herself that her " true task was to enlarge the sphere of 
sacred poetry and extend its influence," when the last sickness came. It was lato 
in the autumn of 1834 that a severe cold added pulmonary symptoms to previous 
disease, and produced hopeless decline. Change of air having been recommt^nded, 
the thoughtful kindness of Archbishop and Mrs. Whately placed at her disposal 
their delightful country seat of Redesdale, seven miles from Dublin, where every 
thing that the most delicate consideration could suggest for her comfort was assidu 
susly and affectionately provided. Rich was she in friendships throughout her whole 



a MEMOIR OF MkS. HEMANS. 

t — — — . — »^ ■ 

life, in friendships with the wisest and best. It would seera as if the deprivation 
of affections to which she naturally turned for solace had been in some measure 
compensated by their springing up where she least expected them. In a pencilled 
note from this peaceful retirement, she says, — 

" Far better than any indication of recovery is the sweet religious peace which 
I teel gradually overshadowing me with its dove-like pinions, excluding all that 
would exclude thoughts of God." 

The. weiglit of maternal care and anxiety, which had sometimes pressed heavily 
npon her, had been mercifully lifted from her spirit's wings ere they unfolded 
for their returnless flight. Arthur still remained with his father. George, having 
compl«!ted his course at the military college in Soreze with the highest praise of his 
superiors, had returned and accepted a situation as engineer in the north of Ireland, 
and was thus enabled sometimes to visit and cheer his beloved mother. Claude, who 
had made choice of the mercantile profession and received an eligible offer in the 
United States, had sailed for that land which she regarded with so much gratitude, 
while she was yet in comparatively comfortable health. Henry passed the Christmas 
holidays by her invalid couch at Redesdale, soothing her by his tender attentions ; and, 
soon after, her heart overflowed with gladness too deep for words at an unexpected 
letter from Sir Robert Peel, appointing him to a clerkship in the Admiralty, and 
enclosing a munificent donation. Charles, the youngest, accounted it his highest 
privilege never to have been separated from her. With what earnest love did her 
eyes rest upon him, as, bending over her pillow, he read in softened tones, or wrote from 
her dictation the tuneful thoughts that visited her, or mingled with hers the breathing 
of his own devotion ! lie was admitted to his first commuiaion kneeling by her bedside. 
There the mother, so soon to be offered up, stretched her feeble hand to take the 
symbols of a Savior's love with him to whose infant lips she Jiad first taught the 
words, " Suffer the little ones to come unto me." 

In March, 1835, it was thought expedient that she should be removed to her home, 
that she might be more accessible to her physicians, being reduced to a state of 
almost infantine weakness. Her brother and his wife accompanied and remained 
with her, soothing her by the most affectionate and unremitting attentions to the last. 
Her calmness and resignation were without a cloud. She often spoke of the " sweet- 
ness of her couch," and her chamber of sickness seemed lighted from above. 
Flowers and music still inexpressibly cheered her, and the holy book of God was 
her comfort in all affliction. Those dispensations of Providence which might once 
iave seemed dark shone forth in beauty, as the discipline of unerring wisdom, to 
draw her nearer ur^o itself. Entire humility took possession f>f her soul, so that 
her language was, " Behold the handmaid of the Lord ; be it unto me according 
to thy will." 



MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 45 

To the faithful servant v;ho had been with her many years, who in her nursing 
care was ever at her side, and in whose spiritual improvement she was tenderly 
interested, she would sometimes say, — 

" Anna, do you not love your kind Savior ? I am like a quiet babe at his 
feet, and yet my spirit is full of his strength. I feel as a tired child, weary, and 
longing to mingle with the pure in heart." 

Her remarkable memory remained with her as a source of consolation. In wake- 
ful hours she would repeat to herself whole pages of sacred poetry, and chapter after 
chapter from the Scriptures, with a tranquillizing effect. Nature still continued lovely 
to her. The breath of a blossom, the song of a bird, were as the voice of His good- 
ness in whose will her own was perfectly absorbed. Only bright and sweet dreams 
visited her pillow. Yet, to use her own words, — 

" No poetry can express, no imagination conceive, the visions of blessedness that 
flit across my fancy, and make my waking hours more delightful than even those of 
temporary repose." 

On Sunday, the 2Gth of April, her brother wrote from her pale lips that exquisitely 
beautiful " Sabbath Sonnet," her last music strain on earth. She lingered still into 
the pleasant May, calm in faith and hope, and ready to be released. She seemed to 
feel the rush of wings, and to hear, breathing as from lutestrings, " Come up 
hither ! " ' Angels were watcliing for the pure in heart. The last tie that held her 
from them was gently sundered on Saturday, May 16, 1835. At nine in the evening, 
while hovering on the confines of an earthly Sabbath, the gate of paradise opened 
for her. The soul of melody went to its own place, and the mortal put on immortality. 



To eulogize the poetry of Mrs. Heraans is now a work of supererogation. Indeed, 
to analyze it seems almost arrogant, especially in these United States, where, from the 
time that our " beautiful Trimountain " first pointed with golden finger to this daugh- 
ter of the Muses, she has been followed with an intimate and loving worship. More 
than t,ry other female poet of the motherland, she has been naturalized in onr new 
western world. Some of them may have possessed bolder inventive and tragic 
pov/er, like Joanna Baillie ; or more of the high old Attic spirit, like Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning Yet their works have lingered rather in the boudoirs of wealth, or 
relied for full appreciation on the classic or the philosopher. 

But in what region of the Pilgrim's Land is she not at home who struck the key- 
lone of the Pilgrim's Hymn ? In the cabinet, and in the library, by the winter fire, 
where the fariaer reads aloud to his children, and from the tent of the emigrant on 




48 MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. 

the Rocky Mountains or the shores of the Pacific, swells her soul-stirring chonis 
•* Freedom to worship God ! " 

Emphatically has she been styled the poet of her own sex. The hopes, the affections 
the duties of woman, as woman, find expression in her highest eloquence of song. 
She gathers no inspiration from any broader or more brilliant sphere of action, some- 
times coveted for her, but difficult to define, and impossible to attain, save at the 
expense of integral delicacies or inherent privileges. In what other strains so sweet 
and persuasive do we hear of her reliance on an arm made strong by Heaven 
for her protection — of her unswerving faith — her fearless constancy — her love 
without sediment of self, and smiling in death ? 

■ Her genius is the exponent of the great heart of humanity. Like the bee, it 
gathers from all lands the essence and finer spirit of their legendary lore. It con- 
cocts, not the honey of Ilymettus alone, but the aroma of all pure thoughts and 
noble deeds, from the wilderness to the throne. Wherever there is a charm in nature, 
it glides like the rejoicing sunbeam ; wherever there is a sorrow or a tomb, its sighing 
sympathies are like the pity of an angel. ^ 

Where is the heart that has not leaped up to newer life at " The Voice of Spring" ? 
By what hearthstone, however lowly, have there not been tears over " The Graves 
of a Household"? Who that has lost a loved one beneath the whelming surge 
but has thrilled with trembling emotion at her trumpet cry, ^^ Restore the Dead, thou 
Sea"? 

Still, unambitious of fame, and led onward by consecrated genius, as well as sanc- 
tified suffering, to deeper humility and more sublimated faith, was she whose lays and 
life equally awaken admiration, and who, in the eloquent words of a contemporary, 
is " praised by all who read her, loved by all who praise, and known, in some degree, 
wherever our language is spoken." 

L.H S. 

Habtfobd, C0BV4 May 1, 1853. 



M 



THS 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



'«?) 



THB 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



MRS. HEMANS. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



U« MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

WP.ITTEN AT THE AOE OF EIGHT. 

Clad in all their brightest green, 
This day the verdant fields are seen j 
The tuneful birds begin their lay, 
To celebrate thy natal day. 

The breeze is still, the sea is calm, 
And the whole scene combines to charm ; 
The flowers revive, this charming May, 
iiecause it is thy natal day. 

The sky is blue, the day serene, 
And only pleasure now is seen ; 
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay. 
Combine to bless thy natal day. 



A PRAYER. 

TVEITTEN AT THE AGE OF NIKB. 

O God ! my Father and my Friend, 
Ever Thy blessings to me send ; 
Let me have Virtue for my guide, 
And Wisdom always at my side. 
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go, 
Nor ever feel the sting of woe ; 
7 



Contented with the humblest lot — 
Happy, though in the meanest cot. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEITY 

WBITTEK AT THE AOE OF ELETIir. 

The infant muse, Jehovah, would aspire 

To swell the adoration of the lyre : 

Source of all good ! 0, teach my voice to sing 

Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beautiet 

sprmg ; 
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise. 
Who saidst to Chaos, " Let the earth arise." 
O, Author of the rich, luxuriant year. 
Love, Truth, and Mercy in Thy works appear. 
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep. 
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep. 
O, could I number Thy inspiring Avays, 
And wake the voice of animated praise ! 
Ah, no ; the theme shall swell a cherub's note ; 
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 
'Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing 
Thee, God of mercy, Heaven's immortal Kins; I 
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspue — 
O, fill my heart with elevated fire : 
With angel songs an artless voice shall blend, 
The grateful oflering shall to Thee ascend. 



60 



JUVENILE rOEMS. 



iea. Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, 
And *' till my beating heart with sacred fire ! " 
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, 
Raise me to join Eliza,- blest in Heaven. 



SHAKSPEARE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AOE OF ELEVEN. 

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, 
H'hicli slie read, as lier choicest recreation, at six years old ; 
tnd in later days she would often refer to the hours of ro- 
mance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own — a seat 
amongst the branches of an old apple tree — where, revel- 
ling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would 
become completely ahsorbed in the imaginative world it 
revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven 
years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthu- 
siasm. — Memoir of J\Irs. Hemans by her Sister, pp. 6, 7.] 

I LOVE to rove o'er History's page, 

Recall the hero and the sage ; 

Revive the actions of the dead, 

And memory of ages fled. 

Yet it j'ields me greater pleasure 

To read the poet's pleasing measure. 

Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired. 

The bosom's energies are fired ; 

We learn to shed the generous tear 

O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier ; 

To love the merry moonlit sc^ne, 

With fairy elves in valleys green ; 

Or, borne on Fancy's heavenly wings, 

To listen while sweet Ariel sings. 

How sweet the " native wood notes wild" 

Of him, the Muses' favorite child ! 

Of him whose magic lays impart 

Each various feeling to the heart ! 



TO ^lY BROTHER AND SISTER IN 
THE COUNTRY. 

WBIIIEN AT THE AOE OF ELEVEN. 

[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in Lon- 
dos with her father and mother , and a similar sojourn was 
M;)eated in the following /ear, after which she never vis- 
ited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement 
of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain 
liome, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indul- 
gences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and 
she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their 
favorite rural haunts and amusements — the nuttery wood, 
Uie beloved apple tree, the old arbor with its swing, the 
post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family 
letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were 

1 A sister whom the auth ^r had lost. 



launched, (generally painted and deci>ra;ed by herself,) and, 
dearer still, the fresh, free ramble on the sea shore, or tb« 
mountain expediticm to the Signal Station, or the Roman En- 
campment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with vvliicb 
she looked forward to her return home was thus exp 
in rhyme. Memoir, pp. 8, 9.] 

Happy soon we'll meet again, 
Free from sorrow, care, and pain ; 
Soon again we'll rise witli dawn. 
To roam the verdant, dewy lawn ; 
Soon the budding leaves we'll hail. 
Or wander thi'ough the well-known vale ; 
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers ; 
And sport away the light-winged hours. 
Soon we'll run the agile race ; 
Soon, dear plajTnates, we'll embrace ; 
Through the wheat field or the grove, 
We'll hand in hand delighted rove; 
Or, beneath some spreading oak, 
Ponder the instructive book ; 
Or view the ships that swiftly glide, 
Floating on the peaceful tide ; 
Or raise again the carolled lay ; 
Or join again in mirthful play ; 
Or listen to the humming bees. 
As their murmurs swell the breeze ; 
Or seek the primrose where it springs j 
Or chase the fly with painted winga ; 
Or talk beneath the arbor's shade ; 
Or mark the tender, shooting blade ; 
Or stray beside the babbling stream. 
When Luna sheds her placid beam ; 
Or gaze upon the glassy sea — 
Happy, happy shall we be ! 



SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AT THE AOE OF TWELVE. 

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 

I pour the genuine numbers free from art — 
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth ; 

For thou wilt prize the effusion of the hearL 
O, be it mine, with sweet and pious care, 

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; 
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear> 

With fond endearments to impart relief: 
Be mine thy warm affection to repay 

With duteous love in thy declining hours ; 

My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, 
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way ; 

Still may thy grateftil children round thee 
smile — 

Their pleasing care afliiction shall beguile. 






JUVENILE POEMS. 



SI 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN AT THE AOE OF THIRTEEN. 

Tia sweet to think the spirits of the blest 

May hover round the virtuous man's repose ; 
A.nd oft i.i visions animate his breast. 

And sc enes of bright beatitude disclose. 
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, 

May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, 
inspire the pious fervor of his soul, 

And whisper to his bosom hallowed peace. 
Ah, tender thought ! that oft with sweet relief 

May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, 
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief. 

And pensive pleasure with devotion blend ; 
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, 
The airy lay of some departed saint. 



RURAL WALKS. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

U, MAY I ever pass my happy hours 

In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowt.rs ; 

For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, 

And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. 

And much I love to hail the vernal morn. 

When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn ; 

And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, 

To cull the tender rosebuds in my way ; 

And seek in every wild, secluded dell, 

rhe weeping cowslip and the azure bell ; 

With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, 

To form the gay festoon of varied hue. 

And oft I seek the cultivated green. 

The fertile meadow, and the village scene ; 

Where rosy children sport around the cot. 

Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. 

And there I wander by the cheerful rill, 

That murmurs near the osiers and the mill ; 

To view the smiling peasants turn the hay. 

And listen to their pleasing, festive lay. 

I love to loiter in the spreading grove, 

Or in the mountain scenery to rove ; 

Where summits rise in awful grace around, 

With hoary moss and tufted verdure crowned ; 

Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, 

" And frown upon the vale " with grandeur 

wild : 
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, 
A.rrayed in all the blending shades of Time. 

The airy upland and the woodland green, 
fhe valljy, and romantic mountain scene ; 



The lowly hermitage, or fair domain. 
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane ; 
'* And every spot in sylvan beauty drest. 
And every landscape, charms my youthful 
breast." 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long beer- 
regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration 
perhaps more partial tlian judicious, was submitted to the 
world, in the form (ceitainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto 
volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions oi 
some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,l and the young 
poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils 
attendant upon the career of an author ; though it may here 
be observed that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was 
at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with 
any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this 
unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, het 
buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions contin- 
ued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the 
skylark] 

I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour 

When Evening spreads around her twilight 
veil ; 
When dews descend on every languid flower, 

And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. 
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide. 

While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play ; 
To hear the waters murmur as they glido. 

To mark the fading smile of closing day. 
There let me linger, blest in visions dear, 

Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas ; 
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, 

Of airy music floating on the breeze. 
For still when evening sheds the genial dews. 
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. 

1 The criticism referred to, and which, considering the 
circumstances under which the volume appeared, was cer- 
tainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as 
follows : — 

" We hear that these poems are the ' genuine productions 
of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and 
thirteen years,' and we do not feel inclined to question the 
intelligence ; but although the fact may insure them an 
indulgent reception from all those who have ' children dear,' 
yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are dis 
posed to examine before we admit her claims to public at 
tention. Many of Miss Browne's compositions are extremely 
jejune. However, though Miss Browne's poems contain 
some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the 
' Reflections in a ruined Castle,' and the poetic strain in 
which they are delivered. The lines to ' Patriotism ' con- 
tain good thoughts Euid forcible images ; and if the youthful 
author were to content herself for some years with reading 
instead of writing, we should open any future work from 
her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on our 
recollection of this publication ; though we must, at the 
same time, observe that premature talents are not always 
to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honey- 
suckle attains maturity before the oak" — JStonthly R» 
vieiB, 1809 



82 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOR 
AND PATRIOTISM. 

WRITTEK AT THK AOK OF KOURTEEK. 

— ^ " Ili9 sword the brave man draws, 
And asks no omen but his country's cause." — Pope. 

[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her 
riew. Birthday addresses, songs by the sea shore, and in- 
rocallons lo lairies, were hencefortli to be diversified with 
v^arlike tliemes ; nnd trumpets and banners now floated 
tlirough the dreams in wliith birds and flowers had once 
reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered 
the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d 
Royal Welsh Fusileers. One of them was now engaged in 
the .'Spanish catnpaign under Sir John Moore ; and a vivid 
imagination and entJnisiastic affections being alike enlisted 
in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions 
•jf British valor and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent 
view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the 
very names which were of daily occurrence in the de- 
spatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds of 
Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, 
" Tlie Cid Ruy Diaz," the Campeador. Under the inspira- 
tion of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled " Eng- 
land and Spain," which was published, and afterwards 
translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as 
a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen — lofty 
sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowl- 
edge, being all strikingly displayed in it. — Memoir, pp. 
10, 11. 

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined 
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind ; 
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe, 
And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe ! 
O'er Europe's cultured realms and climes afar, 
Triumphant Gaul has poured the tide of war ; 
To her fair Austria veiled the standard bright ; 
Ausonia's lovely plains have owned her might; 
While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield. 
Forsook her towering height on Jena's field ! 

O gallant Frederic ! could thy parted shade 
Have seen thy country vanquished and betrayed. 
How had thy soul indignant mourned her shame, 
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnished fame ' 
When Valor wept lamented Brunswick's doom, 
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb ; 
WliSn Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave, 
Invoked his spirit to descend and save ; 
Then set her glories — then expired her sun. 
And fraud acliieved e'en more than conquest 
won ! 

O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty 

Has Desolation spread her ample sway ; 
Thy blast, O Ruin ! on tremendous wings, 
Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings. 



Thus the wild hurricane's impetuo.is force 
With dark destruction marks its whelming 

course, 
Despoils the woodland's pomp, the blooming 

plain. 
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train ! 
Rise, Freedom, rise, and, breaking from thy 

trance. 
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering 

lance ! 
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause. 
And call thy champions to defend thy laws ! 
How long shall tyrant power her throne main 

tain ? 
How long shall despots and usurpers reign .•• 
Is honor's lofty soul forever fled ! 
Is virtue lost ? is martial ardor dead .' 
Is there no heart where worth and valor dweli 
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell ? 
Yes, Freedom ! yes ! thy sons, a noble band. 
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand ; 
Once more, 'tis thine, invincible to wield 
The beamy spear and adamantine shield ! 
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, 
Again thy lion glance appalls thy foes ; 
Thy kindling eyebeam darts unconquered fires, 
Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires ; 
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, 
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, 
Lo ! Britain's generous host tneir aid supply, 
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die ; 
And Glory smiles to sec Iberia's name 
Enrolled with Albion's in the book of fame ! 

Illustrious names ! still, still united beam, 
Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme ; 
So, when two radiant gems together shine, 
And in one wreath their lucid light combine ; 
Each, as it sparkles with transcendent rays. 
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. 

Descend, O Genius ! from thy orb descend ! 
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend 
As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) 
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray. 
So let the chords th)' heavenly presence own, 
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone ; 
Call from the sun, her burning throne on higk. 
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye ; 
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire. 
And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre 

Hail, Albion ! hail, thou land of freedom' 
birth! 
Pride oi the main, and Phoenix of the earth ! 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



SI 



rhou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell. 
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! 
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans 

brave, 
liold in the field, triumphant on the wave ; 
In classic elegance and arts divine. 
To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine ; 
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly. 
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky. 
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime 
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time ! 
Hail, Albion, hail ! to thee has fate denied 
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan's pride. 
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast. 
And all the wealth of Montezuma's coast : 
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine. 
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine ; 
No light Arabian gales their wings expand. 
To waft Sabsean incense o'er the land ; 
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills. 
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils ; 
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, 
And far from thee the scented cassia blows : 
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne. 
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own ; 
From Lapland's shore to Afric's fervid reign. 
She bids thy ensigns float above the main ; 
Unfurls her streamers to the favoring gale. 
And shows to other worlds her daring sail : 
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to 

thee, 
Queen of the trident ! empress of the sea ! 

For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, 
And bade the zones resound with Britain's 

arms ! 
Calpe's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore. 
Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar ; 
The sacred waves of fertilizing Nile 
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle ; 
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war 
Has rolled o'er Vincent's cape and Trafalgar! 
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder's sound. 
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crowned ; 
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain. 
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main ! 
The milder emblems of the virtues calm — 
The poet's verdant bay, the sage's palm — 
These in thy laurel's blooming foliage twine, 
And round thy brows a deathless wreath com- 
bine : 
Not Mincio's banks, nor Meles' classic tide. 
Are hallowed more than Avon's haunted side ; 
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme 
Than pure Ihssus, or than Tiber's stream. 



Bright in the annals of th' impartial page, 
Britannia's heroes live from age to age ! 
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race* 
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase. 
Free from all cares for luxury or gain. 
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain . 
To these Augustan days, when social arts 
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts ; 
From doubtful Arthur — hero of romance. 
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance — 
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, 
The gallant victors of Vimeira's field ; 
Still have her warriors borne th' unfading crown, 
And made the British flag the ensign of renown. 

Spirit of Alfred ! patriot soul sublime ! 
Thou morning star of error's darkest time ! 
Prince of the Lion heart ! whose arm in fight 
On Syria's plains repelled Saladin's might ' 
Edwakd ! for bright heroic deeds revered. 
By Cressy's fame to Britain still endeared ! 
Triumphant Henry ! thou, whose valor proud, 
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bowed ! 
Look down, look down, exalted shades ! and 

view 
Your Albion still to freedom's banner true ' 
Behold the land, ennobled by yoiir fame, 
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name 
And, as the pyramid indignant rears 
Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years ; 
See her secure in pride of virtue tower, 
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power 

Lo ! where her pennons, waving high, aspire 
Bold Victory hovers near, *' with eyes of fire ! ' 
While Lusitania hails, with just applause. 
The brave defenders of her injured cause ; 
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise. 
And swells th' exulting paean to the skies ! 

And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, 
Breathed to their cherished realms a sad fare- 
well ! 
Who, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide. 
Still fondly lingered on its deck, and sighed ; 
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, 
And the blue distance melted into light — 
The royal exiles, forced by Gallia's hate 
To fly for refuge in a foreign state — 
They, soon returning o'er the western main, 
Ere long may view their clime beloved again ; 
And as the blazing pillar led the host 
Of faithful Israel o'er the desert coast, 
So may Britannia guide the noble band 
O'er the wild ocean to their native land. 



64 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



O glorious isle — O sovereign of the waves I 
Thine are the sons who " never will be slaves ! " 
See thera once more, with ardent hearts advance, 
And rend the laurels of insulting France ; 
To brave Castile their potent aid supj^ly, 
And wave, Freedom ! wave thy sword on high ! 

Is there no bard of heavenly power possessed 
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast r 
Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, 
And call each wayward passion to obey ? 
Is there no bard, imbued with hallowed fire. 
To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre ; 
Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, 
The patriot's name to ages might consign ? 
Rise, Inspiration ! rise ! be this thy theme, 
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam ! 

0, could my muse on seraph pinion spring. 
And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling 

string ! 
Could she the bosom energies control. 
And pour impassioned fervor o'er the soul ! 
O, could she strike the harp to Milton given. 
Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven ! 
Ah, fruitless wish ! ah, prayer preferred in vain. 
For her — the humblest of the woodland train ; 
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise 
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise ! 

Iberian bands ! whose noble ardor glows 
T\) pour confusion on oppressive foes ; 
Intrepid spirits, hail ! 'tis yours to feel 
The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zeal ! 
Not to secure dominion's boundless reign. 
Ye wave the flag of conquest o'er the slain ; 
No cruel rapine leads you to the war. 
Nor mad ambition, whirled in crimson car. 
No, brave Castilians ! yours a nobler end, 
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend ! 
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear 
The floating standard, and the lofty spear ! 
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, 
Fired by the image of the maid adored ! 
His best beloved, his fondest ties to aid. 
The father's hand unsheathes the glittering 

blade ! 
For each, for all, for every sacred right. 
The daring patriot mingles in the fight ! 
And e'en if love or friendship fail to warm. 
His country's name alone can nerve his daunt- 
less arm ! 

He bleeds ! he falls ! his death bed is the field ! 
His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield ! 



His closing eyes the beam of valor speak, 
The flush of ardor lingers on his cheek ; 
Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes. 
Then for his country breathes a prayer — and 

dies ! 
O ! ever hallowed be his verdant grave — 
There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave ! 
Thou, lovely Spring ! bestow, to grace his tomb, 
Thj' sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom i 
There let the tears of heaven descend in balm, 
There let the poet consecrate his palm ! 
Let honor, pity, bless the holy ground. 
And shades of sainted heroes watch around ! 
'Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, 
Thy chief, O Thebes ! at Mantinca fell ; 
Smiled undismayed within the arms of death, 
"While Victory, weeping nigh, received hia 

breath ! 

O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul ! 
Thou source of energies beyond control ! 
Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, 
Whose sons ur. conquered fight, undaunted 

bleed, — 
Inspiring Liberty ! thy worshipped name 
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame ; 
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, 
'Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. 
More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, 
Where ne'er a flower expands, a zej)hyr blows 
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain. 
In frostwork palace holds perpetual reign ; 
Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove 
The green savannas and the spicy grove ; 
Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gaies, 
In citron woods and aromatic vales : 
For O ! fair Liberty, when thou art near, 
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear ! 

Where'er thy smile its magic power bestows. 
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows 
The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, 
And every chord to swelling transport lives, 
There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace 
The soul of beautj% and the lines of grace ; 
With bold Promethean hand, the canvas warms, 
And calls from stone expression's breathing 

forms. 
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o'erflows its bounds 
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round. 
Bid Ceres laugh o'er waste and sterile sands, 
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. 

Immortal Freedom ! daughter of the skies 1 
To thee shall Britain's grateful incense rise. 



Ne'er, goddess ! ne'er forsake thy favorite isle, 
Still be thy Albion brightened with thy smile ! 
Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose. 
While proudly triumphed thine insulting foes ; 
Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light. 
Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight ; 
Once more we see thy kindling soul return, 
Thy vestal flame with added radiance burn ; 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thine ardor lives, 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives ! 

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band ! 
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. 
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day 
Streamed o'er the smiling land in long array, 
Though tyrant Asia poured unnumbered foes, 
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose ; 
For every state in sacred union stood. 
Strong to rejiel invasion's whelming flood; 
Each heart was glowing in the general cause. 
Each hand prepared to guard their hallowed 

laws ; 
Athenian valor joined Laconia's might, 
And but contended to be first in fight ; 
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran. 
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. 
Then Persia's monarch mourned his glories lost. 
As wUd confusion winged his flying host ; 
Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, 
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung ! 
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record 
The high achievements of the conquering sword. 
Thus, brave Castilians ! thus may bright re- 
nown 
And fair success your valiant efforts crown ! 

Genius of chivalry ! whose earlj' days 
Tradition still recounts in artless la5's ; 
Whose faded splendors fancy oft recalls — 
The floating banners and the lofty halls. 
The gallant feats thy festivals displayed. 
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade ; 
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail. 
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale : 
Those times are fled, when stern thy castles 

fi owned, 
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur 

crowned ; 
Those times are fled, when Mr Iberia's clime 
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime ; 
And all thy glories, aV^ thy deeds of )'ore. 
Live but in legends wild, and poet's lore. 
Lo ! where thy silent harp neglected lies. 
Light o'er its chords the murmuring zephyr 

sighs ; 



Thy solemn courts, where once the minstre 

sung, 
The choral voice of mirth aud music rung ; 
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone. 
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan ; 
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, 
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. 
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gono 
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown ; 
Genius of chivalry I thy noble train. 
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain ! 
Fair truth arrayed in robes of spotless white, 
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light ; 
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim. 
Still darting forward to the wreatli of fame ; 
And purest love, that waves his torch divine, 
At awful honor's consecrated shrine ; 
Ardor, with eagle wing and fiery glance ; 
And generous courage, resting on his lance ; 
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued ; 
Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude ; 
And patriot energy, with heart of flame — 
These, in Iberia's sons are yet the same ! 
These from remotest days their souls have fireu. 
" Nerved every arm," and every breast inspired ' 
When Moorish bands their suffering land pos- 
sessed, 
And fierce oppression reared her giant crest. 
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova's throne 
In eastern gems and purple splendor shone , 
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied 
With stately Bagdat's Oriental pride ; 
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp arrayed, 
Where arts and luxury their charms displayed 
'Twas theirs to rear the Zchrar's costly towers. 
Its fairy palace and enchanted bowers ; 
There all Arabian fiction e'er could tell 
Of potent genii or of wizard spell — 
All that a poet's dream could picture bright, 
One sweet Elysium, charmed the wonderin| 

sight ! 
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand. 
It seemed an Eden from Armida's wand ! 

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radian 
state, 
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate 
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear. 
Stern retribution frowning on his spear ; 
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, 
O'erwhelmed with shame, confessed the CJiri* 
tian's might. 

In later times the gallant Cid arose. 
Burning with zeal against his country's foes ; 



56 



JUVENILE POExMS. 



His victor arm Alphonso's throne maintained, 
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest 

gained ! 
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, 
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse ! 
High in the temple of recording fame, 
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name ! 
Victorious chief ! whose valor still defied 
The arms of Gaul, and bowed her crested pride ; 
With splendid trophies graced his sovereign's 

throne, 
A.nd bade Granada's realms his prowess own. 
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain ! 
In mighty Ferdinand's illustrious reign ; 
'Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, 
Unfurled his flag before the eastern gale ; 
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore 
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. 
Fair science guided o'er the liquid realm, 
Sweet hope, exulting, steered the daring helm ; 
While on the mast, with ardor-flashing eye, 
tJourageous enterprise still hovered nigh : 
The hoarj'' genius of th' Atlantic main 
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign — 
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued. 
The throne, the world of awful solitude. 
And e'en when shipwreck seemed to rear his 

form, 
And dark destruction menaced in the storm ; 
In every shape when giant peril rose. 
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose ; 
O'er every heart when terror swayed alone. 
And hope forsook each bosom but his own ; 
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repelled. 
His glorious track the gallant sailor held ; 
Attentive still to mark the sea birds lave, 
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. 
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep. 
With dauntless prow explored th' untravelled 

deep ; 
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses' watchful sight 
Viewed every star and planetary light- 
Sublime Columbus ! when, at length descried, 
The long-sought land arose above the tide, 
How every heart with exultation glowed, 
How from each eye the tear of transport flowed ! 
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew 
When Canaan's fertUe plains appeared in view. 
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze, 
Then martial music floated o'er the seas ; 
Their waving streamers to the sun displayed. 
In all the pride of warlike pomp arrayed. 
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band 
Hailed the glad shore, and blessed the stranger 

land ; 



Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair. 
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air ; 
Then crowded round its free and simple race, 
Amazement pictured wild on every face ; 
Who deemed that beings of celestial birth. 
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth. 
Then first another world, another skj', 
Beheld Iberia's banner blaze on high ! 

StiU prouder glories beam on history's page. 
Imperial Charles ! to mark thy prosperous age 
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright. 
When Science poured her mild, refulgent light 
When Painting bade the glowing canvai 

breathe. 
Creative Sculpture claimed the living wreath 
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers. 
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers 5 
When angel truth dispersed, with beam divine, 
The clouds that veiled religion's hallowed shrine 
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower 
High on the pyramid of fame and power ; 
Vain all the eff'orts of her numerous foes. 
Her might, superior stiU, triumphant rose. 
Thus on proud Lebanon's exalted brow, 
The cedar, frowning o'er the plains below. 
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, 
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e'er to bend 

When Gallia poured to Pavia's trophied plain 
Hor youthful knights, a bold, impetuous trai:i 
When, after many a toil and danger past, 
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last ; 
That morning saw her glittering host combine, 
And form in close array the threatening line ; 
Fire in each eye, and force in every arm. 
With hope exulting, and with ardor warm ; 
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, 
Their armor flashing to the beam of day ; 
Their generous chargers panting, spurn the 

ground, 
Soused by the trumpet's animating sound ; 
And heard in air their Avarlike music float. 
The martial pipe, the drum's inspiring note .' 

Pale set the sun — the shades of evening fell, 
The mournful night wind rung their funeral 

knell ; 
And the same day beheld their warriors dead. 
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled ! 
Fled, like the lightning's evanescent fire, 
Bright, blazing, dreadful — only to expire ! 
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confessed hei 

might, 
Iberia's planet shed meridian light ! 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



61 



Nor less, on famed St. Quintin's deathful day, 
Castilian spirit bore the prize away — 
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, 
And trophies beaming high in glory's fane ! 
And lo ! her heroes, warm with kindred flame. 
Still proudly emulate their fathers' fame ; 
Still Mith the soul of patriot valor glow, 
Still rus^h impetuous to repel the foe ; 
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, 
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear ! 
Be theirs, be theirs unfading honor's crown. 
The living amaranths of bright renown ! 
Be theirs th' inspiring tribute of applause, 
Due to the champions of their country's cause ! 
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, 
The joj' when conscience whispers and approves ! 
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats 

high, 
Tc figlit, to bleed, to fall, for liberty ; 
When every hand is dauntless and prepared 
The sacred charter of mankind to guard ; 
When Britain's valiant sons their aid unite. 
Fervent and glowing stiJl for freedom's right, 
Bid ancient enmities forever cease, 
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. 
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band. 
Can venal slaves their conquering arms with- 
stand ? 
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless r 
Can victory fail to crown them with success ? 
Look down, O Heaven ! the righteous cause 

maintain. 
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain ! 
Despot of France ! destroyer of mankind ! 
What spectre cares must haunt thy sleepless 

mind ! 
O, if at midnight round thy regal bed. 
When soothing visions fly thine aching head ; 
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm. 
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm ; 
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise. 
And murdered victims bleed before thine eyes ; 
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, 
"Tyrant ! the hour, th' avenging hour is near ! " 
It is, it is ! thy star withdraws its ray — 
Soon will its parting lustre fade away ; 
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light. 
And veil thy splendors in eternal night ! 
0, when accusing conscience wakes thy soul 
With awful tenors and with dread control. 
Bids threatening forms, appalling, round thee 

stand. 
And summons all her visionary band ; 
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, 
Ajad whispers, peace and happiness are fled ; 
& 



E'en at the time of silence and of rest. 
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast ; 
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale ? 
Then dost thou tremble, does tlxy spirit fail ? 
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke 
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke ? 
Bereave a nation of its rights revered. 
Of all to morals sacred and endeared ? 
And shall they tamely liberty resign, 
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine ? 
Canst thou, supreme destroyer ! hope to bind, 
In chains of adamant, the noble mind ? 
Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear — 
Go, stay the lightning in its winged career ! 
No, tyrant ! no ! thy utmost force is vain 
The patriot arm of freedom to restrain. 
Then bid thy subject bands in armor shine, 
Then bid thy legions all their power combine ! 
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, 
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, 
E'en then her soul thy lawless might would 

spurn. 
E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation 

burn ! 

Ye sons of Albion ! first in danger's field, 
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield ! - 
Still prompt the injured to defend and save 
Appall the despot, and assist the brave ; 
Who now intrepid lift the generous blade. 
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid ! 
Ye sons of Albion ! by your country's name. 
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame ; 
O, by the shades of Cressy's martial dead. 
By warrior bands at Agincourt who bled , 
By honors gained on Blenheim's fatal plain, 
By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain ; 
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, 
Undaunted spirit ! valor's favorite son ! 
By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime^ 
Renowned from zone to zone, from clime t< 

clime ; 
Ye British heroes ! may your trophies raise 
A deathless monument to future days ! 
O, may your courage still triumphant ris 
Exalt the "lion banner" to the skies ! 
Transcend the fairest names in history's pag*, 
The brightest actions of a former age ; 
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, 
And bid oppression fall — to rise no more ! 
Then soon returning to your native isle. 
May love and beauty hail you with their smile 
For you may conquest weave th' undying wreath. 
And fame and glory's voice the song o£ raptur* 
breath « I 



63 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Ah ! when shall mad ambition cease to rage ? 
Ah ! when shall war his demon wrath assuage? 
When, when, supplanting discord's iron reign, 
Shall meicy wave her olive wand again ? 
Not till the despot's dread career is closed, 
A.nd might restrained and tyranny deposed ! 

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign ! 
Fair blue-eyed scrapli! balmy power divine ! 
Descend once more ! thy hallowed blessings 

bring, 
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy 

wing ! 
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train. 
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert 

plain : 
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, 
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. 
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky ! 
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye ; 
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, 
Thy myrtle sceptre o'er the globe extend : 
Thy cherub look again shall soothe mankind. 
Thy cherub hand the wounds of discord bind; 
Thy sniilc of heaven shall every muse inspire, 
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. 
Descend once more ! to bid the world rejoice — 
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, 
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng. 
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral 

Bong ! 
Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland 

reed. 
The martial clarion and the drum succeed ; 
Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers. 
And music warble in Idalian bowers. 
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, 
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath ; 
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain. 
Where the wild combat reddened o'er the plain. 
These are thy blessings, fair, benignant maid ! 
Return, return, in vest of light arrayed ! 
Let angel forms and floating sylphids bear 
Thy car of sapjjhire through the realms of air ; 
With accents milder than ^olian lays. 
When o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays. 
Do thine to charm the raging world to rest, 
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within 

thy breast ! 

O Thou ! whose flat lulls the storm asleep ! 
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep ! 
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's 

torce, 
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course ; 



Fountain of life ! Omnipotent Supreme ! 
Robed in perfection ! crowned with glory'* 

beam ! 
O, send on earth thy consecrated dove, 
To bear the sacred olive from above ; 
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, 
The festal harmony of nature's prime ! 
Bid truth and justice once again appear, 
And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane 

sphere ; 
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, 
Transcendent light their hallowed fane illume ; 
Bid war and anarchy forever cease, 
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace ; 
Brothers once more, let men her empii-e own, 
And realms and monarchs bend before the 

throne, 
While circling rays of angel mercy shed 
Eternal haloes round her sainted head ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONb, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled Thi 
Domestic Affections, and other Poems, was given to tho 
world — the last that was to appear with the name of Fe- 
licia Drowne; for, in the summer of the same year, its 
autlior exchanged that appellation fur the one under which 
she has become so much more generally known. Captain 
Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when 
the acquaintance was renewed which had liegun so long 
before at Gwrych ; and as the sentiments then nuitually 
awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition waa 
made to a union, on which (however little in accordance 
with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of botJl 
parties seemed so entirely to depend. — Memoir, p SW ■> 

THE Sn.VER LOCKS. 

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Though youth may boast the curls that flow 

In sunny waves of auburn glow , 
^s graceful on thy hoary head 
Has Time the robe of honor spread, 
And there, 0, softly, softli/ shed 
His wreath of snow ! 

As frostwork on the trees displayed, 
When weeping Flora leaves the shade. 
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight 
E'en so thy locks of purest white 
Survive, in age's frostwork bright, 
Youth's vernal rose decayed 1 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



5B 



To grace the nymph whose tresses play 
Light on the sportive breeze of May, 
Let other bards the garland twine, 
Where sweets of every hue combine ; 
Those lo'jks revered, that silvery shine, 
Invite my lay ! 

Less white the summer cloud sublime, 
Less white the -winter's fringing rime ; 

Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem 

(A Poet's blest immortal theme) 

Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam 
Of reverend Time ! 

Long may the graceful honors smile, 

Like moss on some declining pile ; 
O much revered ! may filial care 
Around' thee, duteous, long repair. 
Thy joys with tender bliss to share, 
Thy pains beguile ! 

Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave ! 

Long, long, your much-loved beauty save ! 
May bliss your latest evening crown. 
Disarm life's winter of its frown. 
And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down 
In gladness to the grave ! 

And as the parting beams of day 

On mountain snows reflected play. 
And tints of roseate lustre shed; 
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head. 
May joy, with evening planet, shed 
His mildest ray ! 

nugust 18, 1809. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

If e'er from human bliss or woe 

I feel the sympathetic glow ; 

K e'er my heart has learned to know 

The generous wish or prayer ; 
Who sowed the germ with tender hand ? 
Who marked its infant leaves expand r 

My mother's fostering care. 
And if one flower of charms refined 
May grace the garden of my mind, 

'Twas she who nursed it there : 
She loved to cherish and adorn 

Each blossom of the soil ; 



To banish every weed and thorn 
That oft opposed her toil ! 

And O, if e'er I sighed to claim 
The palm, the living palm of fame, 

The glowing wreath of praise ; 
If e'er I wished the glittering stores 
That Fortune on her favorite pours ; 
'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine. 
Round thee with streaming rays might shine^ 

And gild thy sun-bright days ! 

Yet not that splendor, pomp, and power 
Might then irradiate every hour ; 
For these, my mother ! well I know. 
On thee no raptures could bestow ; 
But could thy bounty, warm and kind, 
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined. 
And fall as manna from the skies, 
And bid a train of blessings rise. 

Diffusing joy and peace ; 
The tear drop, grateful, pure, and bright, 
For thee would beam with softer light 
Than all the diamond's crystal rays. 
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze ; 
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart 
To bid one bosom grief depart. 

One tear, one sorrow cease ! 

Then, O, may Heaven, that loves to bless, 
Bestow the power to cheer distress • 
Make thea its minister below. 
To light the cloudy path of woe , 
To visit the deserted cell. 
Where indigence is doomed to dwell ; 
To raise, when drooping to the earth, 
The blossoms of neglected worth ; 
And round, with liberal hand, dispense 
The sunshine of beneficence ! 
But ah ! if Fate should still deny 
Delights Hke these, too rich and high ; 
If grief and pain thy steps assail. 
In life's remote and wintry vale ; 
Then, as the wild ^olian lyre 

Complains with soft entrancing number, 
When the lone storm awakes the wire. 

And bids enchantment cease to slumber 
So filial love, with soothing voice. 
E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice ; 
E'en then shall sweeter, milder sound, 
When sorrow's tempest raves around ; 
While dark misfortune's gales destroy 

The frail mimosa buds of hope and joy f 



ttO 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, 

Oir niS RETURN FROM SI'AtN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT 
CKDER SIR JOHN UOORE, AND TUE BATTLE OF COBUNNA. 

Thocgh dark are the prospects and heavy the 
hours, 
Thougli life is a Uesert, and cheerless the 
■way , 
Yet still shall affection adorn it -with flowers, 
Whobe fragrance shall never decay ! 

And lo ! to embrace thee, my Brother ! she flies, 
With artless delight, that no words can be- 
speak ; 

With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, 
With a smile and a glow on her cheek ! 

From the trophies of war, from the spear and 
the shield, 
From scenes of destruction, from perils un- 
blcst ; 
O, welcome again, to the grove and the field. 
To the vale of retirement and rest. 

Then warble, sweet muse ! with the lyre and 
the voice, 

0, gay be the measure and sportive the strain ; 
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice 

To meet thee, my Brother ! again. 

When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true. 
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory 
crowned. 

How often would fancy present to my view 
The horrors that waited thee round ! 

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my 
prayer. 
That Heaven would protect thee from danger 
and harm ; 
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, 
In the heat of the combat's alarm ! 

How sad and how often descended the tear, 
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image re- 
tain !) 
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with 
fear 
I might never behold thee again I 

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, 
And the tear drop is fled, like the dew on the 
rose: 



Thy dangers, our tears, have endeared thee th« 
more. 
And my bosom with tenderness glows. 

And O, when the dreams, the enchantments of 
youth. 
Bright and transient, have fled like Khe rain- 
bow away ; 
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, 
Shall never, O, never decay ! 

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, 
Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share , 

It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy, 
And beam through the cloud of despair ! 



TO MY ELDEST BROTHER. 

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.) 

How many a day, in various hues arrayed, 
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed witl 

shade, 
How many an hour on silent wing is past, 
O my loved Brother ! since we sa-w thee last I 
Sinx;e the?i has childhood ripened into youth. 
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth : 
Her splendid fabrics melting into air. 
As sage experience waved the wand of care ! 
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, 
And the tear trembles in affection's eye ! 
AVhen shall we meet again ? with glowing raj. 
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day ; 
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting 

tear, 
And sings benignly still — that day is near ! 
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, 
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice ; 
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore 
Our cherished wanderer to his home once more; 
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, 
To faith still true, affection still sincere ! 
Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot, 
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot ! 
And joy's fuU radiance gild that sun-bright 

hour. 
Though all around th' impending storm should 

lower. 

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, 
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast, 
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, 
Where glory's polestar beams their constan.1 
guide,) 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. fti 




Bay, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray 


E'en now, the fair, the good, the true, 


To Cambria's vales and mountains far away ? 


From mortal sight concealed. 




Does fancy oft in busy day dreams roam, 


Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, 




And paint the greeting that awaits at home? 


In light revealed ! 




Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue, 






Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; 


H here the lore of distant time, 




In softer tints delighting to retrace 


And learning's flowers, were all thine own 




Each tender image and each well-known face ? 


How must thy mind ascend sublime. 




Yes, wanderer ! yes ! thy spirit flies to those 


Matured in heaven's empyreal clime. 




Whose love, unaltered, warm and faithful glows. 


To light's unclouded throne ! 
Perhaps e'en noto thy kindling glance 




0, could that love, through life's eventful 


Each orb of living fire explores. 




hours, 


Darts o'er creation's wide expanse, 




Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with 


Admires — adores ! 




flowers ! 






Perennial joy should harmonize thy breast, 


0, if that lightning eye surveys 




No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest ! 


This dark and sublunary plain ; 




But though our tenderness can but bestow 


How mu5t the wreath of hum,an praise 




The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe. 


Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, 




Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame. 


So dim, so pale, so vain ! 




In storms, in sunshine, far and near — the same ! 


How, like a faint and shadowy dream. 




Btill dwell enthroned within th' imvarying heart, 


Must quiver learning's brightest ray ; 




And, firm and vital, but with life depart ! 


While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, 




Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811. 


The sun of glory pours his beam. 






Perfection's day ! 






[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs 




LINES • 


Hemans with the maturer ones on the same subject by Pro- 
fessor Wilson. — Poems, vol. ii. pp. 140-9.] 




treiTIEN IN IBE MEMOIKS OF ELIZABETH SMITH. 






THOTJ ! whose pure, exalted mind. 






Lives in this record, fair and bright ; 






thou ! whose blameless life combined 


THE RUIN AND TTS FLOWERS. 




Soft female charms, and grace refined. 






With science and with light ! 


Sweets of the wild ! that breathe and bloom 




Celestial maid ! whose spirit soared 


On this lone tower, this ivied wall, 




Beyond this vale of tears — 


Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 




Whose clear, enlightened eye explored 


And grace the ruin in its fall. 




The lore of years ! 


Though doomed, remote from careless eye, 
To smile, to flourish, and to die 




Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here, 


In solitude sublime, 




The wing of towering thought was thine ; 


O, ever may the spring renew 




If, on this dim and mundane sphere, 


Your balmy scent and glowing hue. 




Fair truth illumed thy bright career, 


To deck the robe of time ! 




With morning star divine ; 






How must thy blessed ethereal soul 


Breathe, fragrance ! breathe ! enrich the air. 




Now kindle in her noontide ray. 


Though wasted on its wing unknown ! 




And hail, unfettered by control, 


Blow, flowerets ! blow ! though vainly fair, 




The Fount of Day ! 


Neglected and alone ! 
These flowers that long withstood the blast. 




E'en tiow, perhaps, thy seraph eyes. 


These mossy towers, are mouldering fast. 




Undimmed by doubt, nor veiled by fear, 


While Flora's children stay — 




Behold a chain of wonders rise — 


To mantle o'er the lonely pUe, 




Gaze on the noonbeam of the skies, 


To gild Destruction with a smile, 




Transcendent, pure, and clear ! 


And beautify Decay ! 





>;««»'. -JiMiw^- 



1 

52 JUVENILE POEMS. 


Sweets of the wild ! uncultured blowing, 


1 
And Silence, deep and awful, reign 


Neglected in luxuriance glowing ; 


Where echoed once the choral strain ; 


From the dark ruins frowning near, 


Yet oft, dark ruin ! lingering here, 


Your charms in brighter tints appear, 


The Muse will hail thee with a tear ; i 


And richer blush assume ; 


Here when the moonlight, quivering, beam^ j 


You smile with softer beauty crowned, 


And through the fringing ivy streams, 


Whilst all is desolate around. 


And softens every shade sublime. 


Like sunshine on a tomb ! 


And meUows every tint of Time — ■ 




0, here shall Contemplation love. 


Thoa hoary pile, majestic still. 


Unseen and undisturbed, to rove ; 


Memento of departed fame ! 


And bending o'er some mossy tomb, j 


While roving o'er the moss-clad hill, 


Where Valor sleeps or Beauties bloom, 


I ponder on thine ancient name ! 


Shall weep for Glory's transient day 




And Grandeur's evanescent ray ; 


Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valor sleep. 


And listening to the swelling blast, 


That here, so oft, have shone supreme ; 


Shall wake the Spirit of the Past ! 


While Glory, Honor, Fancy, Aveep 


Call up the forms of ages fled, 


That vanished is the golden dream ! 


Of warriors and of minstrels dead. 




Who sought the iield, who struck the lyre, 


Where are the banners, waving proud, 


With all Ambition's kindling iire ! 


To kiss the summer gale of even — 




All purple as the morning cloud, 


Nor wilt thou. Spring ! refuse to breathe 


All streaming to the winds of heaven ? 


Soft odors on this desert air ; 




Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath. 


Where is the harp, by rapture strung 


And fringe these towers with garlands fail 


To melting song or martial story ? 




Whore are the lays the minstrel sung 


^weets of the wild, 0, ever bloom 


To loveliness or glory ? 


Unheeded on this ivied wall ! 




Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 

And grace the ruin in its fall ! ' 


Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, 


To thee no festal measure calls ; 




No music through the desert halls 


Thus round Misfortune's holy head, 


Awakes thee to rejoice ! 


Would Pity wreaths of honor spread ; 


How still thy sleep ! as death profound — 


Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, 


As if, within this lonely round. 


She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile! 


A step — a note — a whispered sound 




Had ne'er aroused thy voice ! 






CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying, 




Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing ; 


Fair Gratitude ! in strain sublime. 


But ne'er again shall harp or song, 


Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal ; 


These dark deserted courts along. 


And, hailing this auspicious time. 


Disturb thy calm repose. 


Kneel, Adoration ! kneel ! 


The harp is broke, the song is fled, 




The voice is hushed, the bard is dead ; 


CHOKUS. 


And never shall thy tones repeat 


For lo ! the day, th' immortal day, 


Or lofty strain or carol sweet 


When Mercy's full, benignant ray 


With plaintive close ! 


Chased every gathering cloud awa}', 




And poured the noon of light ! 


Proud Castle ! though the days are flown 


Rapture ! be kindling, mounting, glowing, 


When once thy towers in glory shone ; 


While from thine eye the tear is flowing. 


When music through thy turrets rung. 


Pure, warm, and bright ! 


When banners o'er thy ramparts hung, 




Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone, 


'Twas on this day — 0, love divine ! - 


Stern Desolation rear his throne ; 


The Orient Star's effulgen'e rose : 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



63 



rhen waked the Mom, whose eye benign 
Shall never, never close ! 



Messiah ! be thy name adored. 

Eternal, high, redeeming Lord ! 

By grateful woilds be anthems poiired — 

Emanuel Prince of Peace ! 
This day, from heaven's empyreal dwelling, 
Harp, Ivrc, and voice, in concert swelling, 

Bade discord cease ! 

Wake the loud paean, tune the voice, 
Children of heaven and sons of earth ! 

Seraphs and men ! exult, rejoice. 
To bless the Savior's birth ! 

CHOEUS. 

Devotion ! light thy purest fire ! 
Transport ! on cherub wing aspire ! 
Praise ! wake to Him thy golden lyre, 

Strike every thrilling chord ! 
While at the Ark of Mercy kneeling. 
We own thy grace, reviving, healing, 

Redeemer ! Lord ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 

Whexce are those tranquil joys in mercy given. 
To light the -nildemess with beams of heaven ? 
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud dif- 
fuse 
Their tempered sunshine and celestial hues ? 
Those pure delights, ordained on life to throw 
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know ? 
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne, 
When kneeling myriads call the world his own ? 
Or dwell with Luxury, in th' enchanted bowers 
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers f 

Favored of heaven ! O Genius ! are they thine. 
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory 

shine ; 
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, 
'Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day ? 
(^No ! sacred joys ! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined, 
Most fondly cherished, in the piirest mind ; 
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing 

ties. 
On earth so sweet — so perfect in the skies ! 

Niirsed in the lap of solitude and shade, 
fhe violet smiles, imb^a )meTi in the glade ; 



There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, 
Gem of seclusion ! treasure of the vale ! 
Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road^ 
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode 
Where hallowed Innocence and sweet Repose 
May strew her shadowy path with many a 

rose. 
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, 
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye, 
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, 
While viewless angels wave their pinions near ; 
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll. 
Borne on resistless wing fi:om pole to pole, 
While War's red lightnings desolate the ball.- 
Ajid thrones and empires in destruction fall ; 
Then calm as evening on the silvciy wave, 
Wiien the wind slumbers in the ocean cave. 
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, 

rHer empire Home ! — her throne, AJFection't 

I breast ^ 

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveKest 

blooms. 
And softer sunshine every scene illumes. 
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, 
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas ; 
When Summer, waving her creative wand. 
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand ; 
Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace. 
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace ; 
0, still for her, through Nature's boundlesfl 

reign, 
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain ; 
"WTiile mental peace, o'er every prospect bright, 
Throws melloTsing tints and harmonizing light ! 
Lo ! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, 
Stem Winter, bursting from the polar clime, 
Triumphant -waves his signal torch on high, 
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky ! 
And high through darkness rears his giant form, 
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm ! 
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more. 
And the wild surges foam along the shore, 
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is stOl serene. 
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle greerv! 
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade — 
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade ! 
Clear through the day, her light aroimd thee 

glows, 
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose ! 
— Hail, sacred Home ! where soft Affection'i 

hand 
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band 1 
Where pure and bright the social ardors riss^N 
Concentring all their he liest energies ! 



04 



JTJATENILE POEMS. 



When wasting toil lins dimmed the vital flame, 
And every power deserts the sinking frame, 
Exhaust-cd nature still from sleep implores 
The charn^ that lulls, the manna that restores ! 
Thus, when oppressed with rude, tumultuous 

cares. 
To thee, sweet Home ! the fainting mind repairs ; 
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, \ 
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies ! 

Bower of repose ! when, torn from all we love.. 
Through toil we struggle, or through distance 

rove ; 
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar — 
Thee, our bright vista ! thee, our magnet star ! 
And from the martial field, the troubled sea. 
Unfettered thought stiU roves to bliss and thee ! 

When ocean sounds in awful slumber die, 
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh ; 
Wide o'er the world when Peace and Midnight 

reign, 
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main ; 
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, 
'Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep ! 
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound. 
All heaven — and sea — and solitude — around ! 
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent hehn. 
From the wide gr'andeur of the shadowy realm, 
StiU homeward borne, his fancy unconfined. 
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind. 
Wings like a meteor flash her swift career. 
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear ! 

Lo ! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave. 
And Danger frowns — the monarch of the wave ! 
Lo rocks and storms the striving bark repel, 
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming 
swell ! 

Child of the ocean ! is thy bier the surge, '^ 
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge ? ' 
Yes ! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o'er. 
No Ftonn shall wake, no perils rouse thee more ! 
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife. 
The struggling agony for death or life. 
E'en then thy mind, imbittering every pain. 
Retraced the image so beloved — in vain ! 
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, 
Life's parting sigh — the murmur of adieu 1 

Can war's dread scenes the hallowed ties 
eff"ace. 
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance 
chase? 



Can flelds of carnage, days of toil, destroy ( 
The loved impression of domestic joy ? ^ 

Ye daylight dreams ! that cheer the soldier'i 
breast. 
In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest ; 
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing 

ray 
O'er the long march through Desolation's way ; 
O, stUl ye bear him from th' ensanguined plain, 
Armor's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain. 
To that loved Home where pure aff'ection glows, 
That shrine of bliss ! asylum of repose ! 
When all is hushed — the rage of combat past, 
And no dread war note swells the moaning 

blast ; 
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er, 
And many an eye is closed to wake no more ; 
Lvdled by the night wind, pillowed on the 

ground, 
(The dewy death bed of his comrades round !) 
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep, 
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers detp ! 
E'en then, soft visions, hovering round, por- 
tray 
The cherished forms that o'er his bosom sway ; 
He sees fond transport light each beaming face. 
Meets the warm tear drop and the long embrace ' 
Wliile the sweet welcome vibrates through his 

heart, 
" Hail, weary soldier ! — never more to part ! " 

And lo ! at last, released from every toil. 
He comes ! the wanderer views his native soil ! 
Then the bright raptures words can never speak 
Flash in his eye and mantle o'er his cheek ! 
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing 

prayer 
Implored for him each guardian spirit's care ; 
Who, for his fate, through sorrow's lingering 

year. 
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and 

fear ; 
In that blest moment, all the past forget — 
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret ! 

And O, for him, the child of rude alarms, 
Reared by stern dimger in the school of arms ! 
How sweet to change the war song's pealin(f 

note 
For woodland sounds in summer air that float 1 
Through vales of peace, o'er mountain wUds t-» 

roam. 
And breathe his native gales, that ■vyhiaper- 

«• Home ! " 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



6S 



( Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, 
' Charms of existence ! angel sympathies ! 
Though Pleasuie smile, a soft Circassian queen ! 
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, 
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours 
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers ; 
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car 
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, 
While Fame's loud psean bids his heart rejoice, 
And every life pulse vibrates to her voice ; 
Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright, 
Flows the full current of serene delight ! 

On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores, 
Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars ! 
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire, 
Meridian glory — on her throne of fire ! 
Bird of the Sun ! his keen unwearied gaze 
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze ; 
But soon, descending from his height sublime, 
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal 

clime, 
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly 

blest. 
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest ! 

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career 
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, 
A.nd proudly waving in his gifted hand, 
' O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand, 
Fearless and firm, with lightning eye surveys 
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays ! 
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, 
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, 
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur 

fraught, 
Dilate the noblest energies of thought ;) 
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, 
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, 
At length he flies, to that serene retreat, 
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet ; 
Imbosomed there, to feel and to impart 
The softer pleasures of the social heart ! 

Ah ! weep for those, deserted and forlorn. 
From every tie by fate relentless torn ; 
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle. 
Marked with no step, uncheered by human 

smile,. L 
Heartsick and faint the shipwrecked wanderer 

stand, 
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand ! 
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, 
A.nd weep — and pray — and linger — but in 

vain ! t 



Thence, roving wild through many n depth 
of shade, 
Where voice ne'er echoed, footstep never strayed. 
He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude, 
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude ! 
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone 
The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan 1 
All else is hushed ! so silent, so profound. 
As if some viewless power, presiding round, 
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, 
Had spread for ages the repose of death ! 
Ah ! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, 
Lives but to watch — and watches but to weep 1 
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise. 
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies ! 
Far from his cherished friends, his native shore, 
Banished from being — to return no more ; 
There must he die ! — within that circling wave. 
That lonely isle — ■ his prison and his grave ! 

Lo\ through the waste, the wilderness of 

snows, 
With fainting step, Siberia's exile goes ! 
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild, 
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled ; 
Where frost and silence hold their despot 

reign, 
And bind existence in eternal chain ! 
Child of the desert ! pilgrim of the gloom ! 
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb! 
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air 
Congeals the bitter tear drop of despair ! 
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing daj-- 
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray ; 
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light 
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight 
Ah ! not for this — far, far beyond relief, 
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; 
But that no friend of kindred heart is there, 
Thj^ woes to mitigate, thy toils to share ; 
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage 
The stormy trials of thy lingering age ; 
No smile of tenderness, with angel power. 
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour;( 
For this alone, despair, a withering guest, \ 
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast.! 
Yes ! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime, 
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime ; 
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, 
In all his wild magnificence of might ; 
E'en there, affection's hallowed spell might poui 
The light of heaven around th' inclement shore ! 
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine 

graced. 
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced. 



66 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, 
E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow ! 
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions 

feign. 
With mj'Stic power could tranquillize the main ; 
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep. 
And peace and silence brood upon the deep ! 

\ And thus. Affection, can thy voice compose 
The stormy tide of passions and of woes ; 
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, 
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace ! ] 

O, mark yon drooping form, of aged mien. 
Wan, yet resigned, and hopeless, yet serene ! 
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase 
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, 
That faded eye was dimmed with many a care, 
Those waving locks wei-e silvered by despair ! 
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm. 
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm ! 
He, a sad emigrant ! condemned to roam 
In life's pale autumn from his ruined home. 
Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave. 
Where joy — and hope — and fortune — found 

a grave ! 
'Twas his to see Destruction's fiercest band 
Rush, lilie a Typhon, on his native land, 
And roll triumphant on their blasted way. 
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay ! 
Unequal combat raged on many a plain, 
And patriot valor waved the sword in vain ! 
Ah ! gallant exile ! nobly, long, he bled. 
Long braved the tempest gathering o'er his 

head ! 
Till all was lost ! and horror's darkened eye 
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die ! 

Ah ! gallant exile ! in the storm that rolled 
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontrolled. 
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest 

bloom, 
Tom by the blast, were scattered on the tomb ! 
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife. 
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life. 
Yet one was spared ! and she, whose filial smile 
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, 
E'en t/t£7i could temper, with divine relief, 
The wild delirium of unbounded grief; 
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art 
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart ! 
And now, though time, subduing every trace, 
Has me/lotoed all, he never can erase ; 
Oft wiL the wanderer's tears in silence flow, 
Still sadly faithful to remembered woe ! 



Then she, who feels a father's pang alone, 

(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) 

With anxious tenderness is ever nigh. 

To chase the image that awakes the sigh ? 

Her angel voice his fainting soul can raise 

To brighter visions of celestial days ! 

And speak of realms, where Virtue's -wing shall 

soar 
On eagle plume — to wonder and adore ; 
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last. 
Unite their kindred souls — and smile on all the 

past! 

Yes ! we may hope that nature's deathless ties, 
Renewed, refined, shall triumph in the skies ! 
Heart-soothing thought ! whose loved, consoling 

powers 
With seraph dreams can gild reflection's hours, 
O, still be near, and brightening through the 

gloom. 
Beam and ascend ! the daj'Star of the tomb ! 
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, ', 
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. ^ _, 

Lo ! by the couch where pain and chill disease 
In every vein the ebbing lifeblood freeze ; 
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, 
Life's closing lesson — in its dawning day ; 
Where beauty's rose is withering ere its prime, 
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoiled by time ; 
There, bending still, with fixed and sleepless eye. 
There, from her child, the mother learns to die ; 
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace 
Of lingering sickness in the faded face ; 
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled, 
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed ; 
And starts each, morn, as deeper marks declare 
The spoiler's hand — the blight of death is there I 
He comes ! now feebly in the exhausted frame, 
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; 
From the glazed eyeball sheds its parting ray — 
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away i 
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling 

heart ; 
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part ! 

'Tis past ! the struggle and the pang are o'er, 
And life shall throb with agony no more ; 
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale, 
Death's awful shadows throw their silvery veil. 
Departed spirit ! on this earthly sphere 
Though poignant suff"ering marked thy short 

career. 
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, 
And hush thy sighs — an angel of repose ! ; 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



67 



S But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, 
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast ? 
A.nd, while she bends in silence o'er thy bier, 
A-ssuage the grief, too heartsick for a tear r ■;, 
Visions of hope in loveliest hues arrayed, ,^ 
Pair scenes of bliss by fancy's hand portrayed ! 
And were ye doomed with false, illusive smile, 
With flattering promises, to enchant a while ? 
And are ye vanished, never to return, 
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn ? 
Will no bright hour departed joys restore ? 
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more ? 
Behold no more the soul-illumined face, 
The expressive smile, the animated grace ? 
Must the fair blossom, withered in the tomb. 
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom ? 
Descend, blest faith ! dispel the hopeless care. 
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair ; 
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn. 
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn -^ 
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews. 
The full perfection of immortal hues ; 
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies. 
By death released, the parent spirit flies ; 
There shall the child, in anguish mourned so 

long. 
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, 
And guide her pinion on exulting flight, 
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds 

of living light. 

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends ! 
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends ; 
If, with benignant care, ye linger near. 
To guard the objects in existence dear ; 
If, hovering o'er, ethereal band ! ye view 
The tender sorroAvs, to your memory true ; 
0, in the musing hour, at midnight deep, 
While for your loss affection wakes to weep ; 
While every sound in hallowed stillness lies. 
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs ; 
O, then, amidst that holy calm be near, 
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear ; 
With secret spells her wounded mind compose. 
And chase the faithful tear — for you that flows : 
Be near — when moonlight spreads the charm 

you loved 
O'er scenes where once your earthly footstep 

roved. 
Fhen, while she -wanders o'er the sparkling 

dew, 
rhrough glens and wood paths, once endeared 

by you, 



And fondly lingers in your favorite bowers, 

And pauses oft, recallir g former hours ; 

Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known 

vale. 
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale ; 
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell. 
Borne by the summer wind from grot and dell ; 
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe hei 

soul 
With soft enchantments and divine control! 
Be near, sweet guardians ! watch her sacred rest, 
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest ; 
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, 
Returned in dreams, to bless her mental eyes ; 
Efface the memory of your last farewell — 
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell. 
The sweet communion of the past renew, 
Reviving former scenes, arrayed in softer hue. 

Be near when death, in virtue's brightest 

hour. 
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power ; 
O ! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream, 
Then let your forms unveiled around her beam : 
Then waft the vision of unclouded light. 
A burst of glorj% on her closing sight ; 
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal 

strain. 
To hush the final agonies of pain ; 
With rapture's flame the parting soul illume. 
And smile triumphant through the shadow , 

gloom ! 
O ! still be near, when, darting into day, 
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay ; 
Be yours to guide her Iluttering wings on high 
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky : 
There let your presence, once her earthly joy, 
Though dimmed with tears and clouded with 

alloy, 
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore 
Where death shall sever kindred hearts nc 



Yes ! in the noon of that Elysian climo. 
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time j 
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire, 
Shall beam on glories never to expire ; 
O ! there th' illumined soul maj' fondly trust, 
More pure, more perfect, rising from the "dust!, 
Those mild affections, whose consoling light 
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night. 
Sublimed, ennobled, shall forever glow. 
Exalting rapture — not assuaging woe \ 



68 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



TO MR. EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF 
CONWAY. 

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed 
were during ciccasional visits to some friends at Conway, 
wliere the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most 
beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire 
the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of en- 
thusiasm ; and it may therefore well be supposed how fer- 
vently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature 
at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which 
was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she 
would now eiiter with childlike playfulness into the enjoy- 
ments of a mountain scramble, or a picnic water party, the 
gayest of the merry hand, of whom some are now, like her- 
self, laid low, some faraway in foreign lands, some changed 
by sorrow, and all by time ; and then, in graver mood, 
dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the 
gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it 
then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or 
causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary 
waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes 
never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of 
her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their 
praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs. Joanna Baillie's 
play of Ethieald was always pleasingly associated with the 
recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Con- 
way Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance 
with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous 
Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in 
ier favor. Her own little poem, " The Ruin and its Flow- 
rs," which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the 
•jresent collection, was written on an excursion to the old 
fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on 
a bold promontory near the entrance of the River Conway ; 
and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, 
once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales ; and 
are funiier endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as 
having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and 
resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate 
representative of that gifted bard i had, at the time now 
alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway ; but 
his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain 
few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so 
worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one 
so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty, — 

" The minstrel was infirm and old ; " 
but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the fol- 
lowing lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the 
magic power he s.ill knew how to exercise over the feelings 
of his auditors.] 

Minstrel ! Avhose gifted hand can bring 
Life, rapture, soul, from every string ; 
And wake, like bards of former time, 
The spirit of the harp subUme ; 
O, still prolong the varying strain ! 
0, touch the enchanted chords again ! 

1 Mr. Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was gen- 
erally called, had been blind from his birth, and was en- 
dowed with that extraordinary musical genius by which 
persons snfTering under such a visitation arenot unfrequently 
indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances. 



Thine is the charm, suspending care 
The heavenly swell, the dying close, 
The cadence melting into air, 
That lulls each passion to repose ; 
While transport, lost in silence near, 
Breathes all her language in a tear. 

Exult, O Cambria ! — now no more 
With sighs thy slaughtered bards deplore 
What though Plinlimmon's misty brow 
And Mona's woods be silent now, 
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain 
Unrivalled in thy proudest reign. 

For Genius, with divine control, 
Wakes the bold chord neglected long, 
And pours Expression's glowing soul 
O'er the wild Harp, r(3nowned in song ; 
And Inspiration, hovering round. 
Swells the full energies of sound. 

Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone, 
Could rouse the warrior's kindling fire, 
And now, 'tis like the breeze's moan. 
That murmurs o'er th' Eolian lyre : 
As if some sylph, with viewless wing, 
Were sighing o'er the magic string. 

Long, long, fair Conway ! boast the skill 
That soothes, inspires, commands, at -will ! 
And 0, while rapture hails the lay. 
Far distant be the closing day, 
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, 
And Cambria's Harp lie hushed in sleep ! 



EPITAPH ON MR. W , 

A OELEBBATED MINEKALOOI&T. 2 

Stop, passenger ! a wondrous tale to list — 
Here lies a famous Mineralogist. 

he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any view 
to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others 
and the innocent ccanplacency with whicJi he enjoyed th« 
ecstasies called forth by his skill, ;uid the degree of appre- 
ciation with which he regarded himself, as in a mannei 
consecrated, by being made the depositary of a direct gift 
from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of 
the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit. 

2 " Wljilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss 
to introduce two little pieces of a very dificrent character 
from the foregoing, [Lines to Mr. Edward, the Harper,] 
which were written at the same place, three or four years 
afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versjitilily of 
talent befi)re alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they 
were never intended for publication, but were merely a jeu 
d'cfpr.t of the moment, in good-humored raillery of the in- 
defatigable zeal and perseverence of one of the party in bii 
geological researches." — Memuir, p. 20. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



6> 



Famous indeed ! such traces of his power, 
He's left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr, 
Buch caves, and chasms, and fissures in the 

rocks, 
His words resemble those of earthquake shocks ; 
And future ages very much may wonder 
What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, 
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne'er 
Gone with his crew to play at football there. 

His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, 
With him, good reader, here lied buried too — 
Sweet specimens ! which, toiling to obtain, 
He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in 

twain. 
We knew, so great the fuss he made about 

them. 
Alive or dead, he ne'er would rest without them ; 
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, 
We paved his grave with all his favorite stones. 
His much-loved hammer 's resting by his side ; 
Each hand contains a shellfish petrified ; 
His mouth a piece of pudding stone encloses. 
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes : 
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet ! 
His very coffin plate is made of granite. 

Weep not, good reader ! he is truly blest 
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest : 
Weep not for him ! but envied be his doom, 
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had 

room : 
And, 0, ye rocks ! — schist, gneiss, whate'er ye 

be, 
Ye varied strata ! — names too hard for me — 
Sing, " 0, be joyful! " for your direst foe 
By death's fell hammer is at length laid low. 

Ne'er on your spoils again shall W riot. 

Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet ; 
He sleeps — no longer planning hostile actions. 
As cold as any of his petrifactions ; 
Enshrined in specimens of every hue. 
Too tranquil e'en to dream, ye rocks, of you. 



EPITAPH 

OS THE HAMUEB OF THE AFOBESAID MINEBALOGIST. 

IIere in the dust, its strange adventures o'er, 
A hammer rests, that ne'er knew rest before. 
Released from toU, it slumbers by the side 
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried ; 
Ho day e'er passed, but in some desperate strife 
He risked the faithful hammer's limbs and life : 



Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, 
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon ball 
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, 
Perhaps a fiint, perhaps a slate to seize ; 
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes. 
He'd mount a precipice that touched the skies, 
And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, 
I'm sure they almost would have made — a 

penny ! 
Think, when such deeds as these were daily 

done. 
What fearful risks this hammer must have run. 
And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine 
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine : 
O, that in strains which ne'r should be forgot. 
Its deeds were blazoned forth by Walter Scott I 
Then should its name with his be closely linked 
And live till every mineral were extinct. 
Rise, epic bards ! be yours the ample field — 

Bid W 's hammer match Achilles' shield: 

As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, 

I search for specimens of wit in vain ; 

'Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer. 

And seek some theme less arduous than the 

hammer ; 
Eememboring well, "what perils do environ'" 
Woman or "man that meddles with cold iron. 



PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLE- 
MAN, 

a3 intended to be peefobmed by the 0ff1cee3 of thb 
34th beoimeni at CLONMEL. 1 

Enter Captain George Browne, in the character of 
Corporal Foss. 

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, 
Stands "The Poor Gentleman," with many a 

fear ; 
Since well he knows, whoe'er may judge hia 

cause. 
That Poverty's no title to applause. 
Genius or Wit, pray, who'll admire or quote. 
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat ? 
Who, in a world where all if bought and sold. 
Minds a man's worth — except his worth in gold ? 
Who'll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner ! 
Hence, starving saint ! but welcome, wealthy 

sinner ! 
Away with Poverty ! let none receive her, 
She bears contagion as a plague or fever ; 

1 These verses were written about the same time as tht 
preceding humorous epitaphs. 



70 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



" Bony, and gaunt, and grim " — like jaundiced 
eyes, 

Discoloring all within her sphere that lies. 

" Poor Gentleman ! " and by poor soldiers, too ! 

O, matchless impudence ! without a sou ! 

In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is. 

With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses. 

How shall they dare at such a bar appear ? 

What are their tactics and manoeuvres here ? 

While thoughts Like these come rushing o'er 

our mind, 
U, may we still indulgence hope to find ! 
Brave sons of Erin ! whose distinguished name 
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, 
And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle ! 
View our weak efforts with approving smile ! 
Schooled in rough camps, and still disdaining art, 
111 can the soldier act a borrowed part ; 
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, 
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage : 
His theatre is found in every land, 
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band : 
Place him in danger's front — he recks not 

where — 
Be your own Wellington his prompter there. 
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, 
He'll act his part in glory's tragic scene. 
Yet here, though friends are gayly marshalled 

round, 
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound. 
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter's wile 
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty's smile ; 
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, 
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. 
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies. 
No stage effect of glittering pageantries : 



No, to your kindness he must look alone 
To realize the hope he dares not own ; 
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic pye. 
His wish to please may claim indemnity. 

And why despair, indulgence when wo crav« 
From Erin's sons, the generous and the brave? 
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, 
Kind, warm, sincere, with native candoi 

fraught ; 
Still has the stranger, in their social isle. 
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, 
And well their hearts can share, though unex- 
pressed, 
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier's 
breast. 

[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of 
Mrs. Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the 
first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile 
compositions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curios- 
ity — for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to 
have commenced before the publication of the section which 
immediately follows. 

In a very general point of view, the intellectual history 
of Mrs. Hemans's mind may be divided into two distinct 
and separate eras — the first of which may be termed the 
classical, aud comprehends the productions of her pen, from 
" The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," and 
" Modern Greece," down to the " Historical Scenes," and 
the " Translations from Camoens ; " and the last, the ro- 
mantic, which commences with " The Forest Sanctuary," 
and includes " The Records of Woman," together with 
nearly all her later eflTarts. In regard to excellence, there 
can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the 
first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, 
and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scin- 
tillations of the brightness which followed. Even after tht 
early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton 
Kiike White, and Byron, these immature outpourings ol 
sentiment and description may be read with an interea 
whicb diminishes not by comparison.] 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 

l" The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapaci- 
iy of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its master 
pieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and criisfgned 

them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre But the joy of discovery was sbort, and 

the triumph of taste transitory." — Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60. j 

" Itali:^ Italia I O tu cui die la sorte 
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' liai 
Funesta dote d' infiniti guai 
Che'n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte ; 
Deh, fossi tu men bella, O almen piu forte." 



Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and 

brave, , 

Daystars of Ufe, a birthplace and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering 

pile ; 
ir'roud wreck of vanished power, of splendor fled, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
"Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy 

chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 'tis thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom 
"Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave. 
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, 
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high — 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ! 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, 
O, rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works re- 
vered. 
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared. 

And breathe to Those the strain, whose war- 
rior might 
Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight. 
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured. 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 



Whose banners tracked the vanquished Eagle'l 
flight 

O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height ; 

Who bade once more the wild heroic lay 

Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 

Who, through each mountain pass of rock and 
snow, 

An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck 
foe ; 

Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, 

Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 

And 'midst those scenes renewed th' achieve- 
ments high 

Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the con- 
flict past. 
One strife remained — the mightiest and the 

last! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour 
Untamed Ambition summoned all his power : 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were 

there. 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy champions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood ; 
Sunbeam of battle ! then thy spirit shone. 
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with life alone, 

O hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb 
Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 
Shrined, not entombed, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dusli 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust. 
Yours, on the scene where valor's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name. 
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



And well may flowers suffice those graves to 

crown 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown ! 
There shall the bard in future ages tread, 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the 

dead; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches 

wave 
O'ei the low mounds, the altars of the brave ! 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and 

heai- 
In every breeze some name to glory dear ; 
And as the shades of twilight close around. 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain 
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane. 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and 

fell. 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow. 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair 
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that 

throw 
A veU of radiance, hiding half thy woe. 
And bid the stranger for a while forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes, fair creations ! to perfection wrought. 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ! 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown. 
Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned. 
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall re- 
store 
One beajn of splendor to your native shore. 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, 
A.S the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

O, ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy — 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly 

grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Beems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 



Where 'midst the ruined shrines of many a vale 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes ! in those scenes where every ancient 
stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 
Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell 
From each wild olive wood, and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, 
'Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot x 
There was your home, and there your powei 

impressed. 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighs 
Wake the Avild harp to loftiest harmonies. 
Thus at your influence, starting frcm repose. 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, iaito grandeiir rose. 

Fair Florence ! queen of Arno's lovely vale 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale. 
And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour. 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in ages 

fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste, 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien. 
Revealed where Conquest's lawless track had 

been ; 
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued. 
Lonely they frowned, a desert solitude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er. 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more 1 

As one who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay. 
With transport heightened by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, 
While heaven's own hues in radiance round 

thee glow, 
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, sine* 

deplored 
As loved-lost relics, ne'er to be restored — 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead 



Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty — 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand. 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, 
Burst in full splendor from her deathlike 

trance — 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations 

wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break — 
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, 
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose, 
And bade its pealing energies resound 
With power electric through the realms around ; 
O high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more. 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
These sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould en- 
shrined ; 
Still with ascendant power the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around, 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground. 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought. 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind ! 
Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
O, who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight. 
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone. 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless. 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kin- 
dling eye 
On forms instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers dilating in his hearty 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand arrayed, 
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portrayed ; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime. 
Sealed -w ith perfection, " sanctified by time ; " i 
10 



Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal : 
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, 
Imbued at once with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes Kin rapid pinions soar. 
And worlds of visionary grace explore, 
Till his bold hand give glory's day dream birth. 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Venice, exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial 

fame 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name ; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play. 
And the wild waves another Queen obey ; 
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace , 
Yet still shall Art her splendors round thee 

cast. 
And gild the wreck of years forever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes. 
Whose clear soft brilKance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in coloring's richest bloom 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed. 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, 
Panting with ardor, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught. 
No mortal birth ye seem — but formed to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of 

air; 
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! winged with light, 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn 
What years on years in silence gliding by. 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode. 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream, 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave ? 



T4 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



How many a state, whose pillared strength sub- 
lime 
Defied the storms of war, the Avaves of time, 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone, 
jportress of power — has flourished and is gone ! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest 

borne, 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun. 
Consummate still in every grace remain. 
As o'er their heads had ages rolled in vain ! 
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain. 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who reared her island 

throne. 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle towering plume un- 
furled 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world. 
Eternal City . round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
rhou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
Immortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine oUve shades among, 
Swelled the high raptures of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, 
And once again with fond delight survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, O Rome ! a godlike train, 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance. 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes. 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
O, with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
patriots and Heroes ! could those flames return 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardors 
burn 



Then from the sacred ashes of the first 
Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst 1 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon' 

gloom. 
With one loud call wake empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread aegis with mnjestic frown. 
Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight 
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light ! 

Vain dream ! Degraded Rome ! thy noon ii 

o'er; 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days. 
Who fixed on thee the world's adoring gaze; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, 
More blest, ere darkness quenched its beam, to 

die! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers. 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way. 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
O, what can realms in fame's full zenith boast 
To match the relics of thy splendor lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill. 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still ; 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom. 
And reared her throne o'er Latium's trophied 

tomb : 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free, 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

O, ne'er again may War, with lightning stroke, 
Rend its last honors from the shattered oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine. 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful 

fire. 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire, 
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer'i 

form 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being 

warm ! 
O, who could view, nor deem that perfect frama 
A living temple of ethereal flame ? 

Lord of the daystar ! how may words portray 
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray ? 
Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could 

trace. 
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright. 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight 



THE llESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



7J 



Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky, 

To vest th' embodied form of Deity ; 

All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, 

Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined ! 

Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 

Have bowed in speechless homage at thy throne, 

And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 

Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstasy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck,' e'en yet sub- 
lime, 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time : 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervors of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere to him alone assigned ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : 
Unrivalled Angelo on thee would gaze, 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair ? 
Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurled, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands 
defaced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste ? 
O, worthy still of some divine abode. 
Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God ! * 

Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquered, to dispense 
From every part some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, informed with essence from on high. 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows. 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; 
Filled with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

1 The Belvidere Torso, the favorite study of Michael 
Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists. 

3 " Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait ete maltraitee et 
mutil^e d'une maniere etrange, se trouvant sans tSte, sans 
bras, et sans janibes, elle est cependant encore un chef- 
d'oeuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent 
percer dans les inysteres de I'art se la representent dans 
toute sa beaute. L'ar'iste, en voulant repr6senter Hercule, 
a form^ un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature * * * Get 
Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il put &tre lorsque, purifie par 
le feu des fuiblesses de I'humanite, il obtint I'immortalite et 
prit place auprfes des Dieux. II est represent^ sans aucun 
besoin de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les veines 
y Pont tout invisibles." — Winckelmakn, ^istotre dei'^rt 
chei les Aiicieiis, torn. ii. p. 248. 



Consummate work ! the noblest and the last 
Of'Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past : ' 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while hngeiing still. 
Her mantle flowed o'er many a classic hill. 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-souled Genius, fostered by her sway. 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shai 
return ! 

And mark yon group, transfixed with manj 

a throe. 
Sealed with the image of eternal woe : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, expressed, 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast. 
And the stern combat picture to mankind 
Of sufl'ering nature and enduring mind. 
O, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through everj 

sense ; 
Though fixed on him, his children's suppliant eyea 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though with the giant snake in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
And in each limb existence writhes, enrolled 
'Midst the dread circles of the venomed fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony ! 
That; furrowed brow imconquered soul reveals. 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death ! * 

3 " Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des demiers ouvragea 
parfaits que I'art ait produit en Grece, avaiit la perte de sa 
liberte. Car apres que la Gr6ce fut reduite en province 
Romaine, I'histoire ne fait mention d'aucun artiste celebre 
de cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain." 
— WiNCKELMANN, ibid. tom. ii. p. 250. 

* " It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized limbs, 
or in the convulsed muscles of tlie Laocoon, that the secret 
grace of its composition resides ; it is in the majestic air of 
the head, which has not yielded to suffering; and in the deep 
serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to 
all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that caniiot b* 
subdued." — Alison's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400. 

" Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine 
dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous 
I'image d'un homme qui tache de rassembler contre elie 
toute la force de I'esprit. Tandis que I'exces de la souffrance 
enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se 
mont resur le front gonfl6 : la poitrine s'eleve avec peine 
par la n6cessite de la respiration, qui est egalementcontraint* 
par le silence que la force de I'&me impose i ta douleui 
qu'elle voudroit etoutTer * * * * Son air est plaintil^ 
et non criard." — Winckelmann, Histoire de I'.irt ehet iM 
Aneiens, tom. ii. p. 2X4. 



76 



THE EESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart, 
To frce/.e each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
")n scenes where painting all her skill displays: 
landscapes, by coloring dressed in richer dyes, 
More mellowed sunshine, more unclouded skies. 
Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, 
Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

O, sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light ; 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around. 
Children of Italy ! who stand alone 
And unapproached, 'midst regions all your own ; 
"Vhat scenes, what beings blessed your favored 

sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolled, 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splen- 
dor shed 
As burst on prophet bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might 

dare. 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair ; 
These o'er the walls your magic skill arrayed. 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting 

shade. 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, 
And breathe and move, the records of your 

power. 
Inspired of heaven ! what heightened pomp ye 

cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome. 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome — 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve, 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chastened warmth and Beauty's mellow- 
est glow. 
And when the Mom's bright beams and man- 
tling dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies. 
Or evening suns illume with purple smile 
The Parian altar and the pillared aisle, 



Then, as the full or softened radiance falls 
On angel groups that hover o'er the walls. 
Well may those temples, where your hand hoa 

shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair. 
That nought of earth should find admittance 

there. 
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind un- 
known. 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! 

Hence, ye vain fictions ! fancy's erring theme I 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time, 
Fables of song, delusive though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ' 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed. 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glowed. 
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; 
That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, 
The loved, the punished, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hUls her thoughts inspired would 

stray, 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way ; 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,' 
Chained in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell 
Where passed th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! 
Where oft his voice the words of fate revealed. 
Swelled in the whirlwind, in the thunder pealed. 
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
" Breathed still small " whispers on the mid- 
night gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand por- 
trayed, 
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar shade. 
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, 
Or patriarch seers absorbed in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of resti 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul returned to animate the dead ; 
Whom the waves owned — and sunk beneath 

his eye. 
Awed by one accent of Divinity ; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours. 
Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified hei 
powers. 

1 Almotaruu The name given 1^ the Arabs to the Dea4 
Sea. 



O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

O, mark where Raphael's pure and perfect 

line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has 

shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Savior's head ; ' 
Each heaven -illumined lineament imbued. 
With all the fulness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal 

sight 
Sinks overpowered by that excess of light ! 



Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly i^ossess, 
Of all her powers, a heightened consciousness 
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray ; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere, 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, 
Faint effluence of "the Dayspring from or 
high ! " 

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of 
his published letters to Mr. Murray, dated from Diodati, 
September 30, 1818 : " Italy or Dalmatia and another sum- 
mer may, or may not, set me off again. . . . ) shal 
take Felicia Hemans's Restoration, &c., witli me : it is a 
good poem — very."]* 



MODERN GREECE 



O Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science 'blooming Fancy bore. 
Be this thy praise, that thou, and tliou alone. 
In these hast led the way, in tliese excelled, 
Crowned with the laurel of assenting Time." 

Thomson's Liberty, 



U, WHO hath trod thy consecrated clime, 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains ! 
And traced each scene that, 'midst the wrecks 

of time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains ; 
Nor for a while, in high-warought dreams, for- 
got. 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there. 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot. 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; 
As when, from mountain heights, his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath tracked the blue in- 
finity? 



Is there who views with cold unaltered mien. 
His frozen heart with proud indifference 

fraught, 
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, 

1 The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a spfecimen 
«t art, that, in honor of Ilaphael, it was carried before his 
body to the grave. 



Where Freedom triumphed, or where Wis- 
dom taught ? 
Souls that too deeply feel ! O, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate hath never known 
Through the dull twilight of that wintry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam 

shone, 
Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's 
trace. 
Glow with the generous flames of every age 
and race. 



But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude ; 
Poured on his ear, 'midst groves and glena 

retired, 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, 
All that hath lived, while empires have ex- 
pired. 
To float forever on the winds of time • 



78 



MODERN GREECE. 



And on his soul uidelibly portrayed 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 



Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts un- 
known, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light ? 
There he may dwell in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and 

bright. 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veiled from other eyes ; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain deU, 
from rocks and caves around calls forth each 
echo's swell. 



For him Italia's brilliant skies iUume 

The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat 

plains, 
And the wild rose yet lives to breathe and 

bloom 
Round Doric Pajstum's solitary fanes.' 
But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 
He feels the fervors of his spirit rise ; 
Thou birthplace of the Muse ! whose voice 

of yore 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast, 
jiui-muring a wild farewell to fame and free- 
dom lost. 



By seas that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast rapt in thought may 

stray. 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave. 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore 
The free, the conquering, hymned by choral 

strains, 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore. 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains ! 
How are the mighty vanished in their pride. 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. 

1 " The PiCstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the 
:ingularlty of blowing twice a year, is often mentioned by 
Jie c'.a-ssic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up 
imong the ruins, is of the ;mall single damask kind, with 
I very liigh perfume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, 
I flowers both in spring ind autumn." — Swinburne's 
IVasala in the Tvo Sicilies 



Hushed are the Pagans -^ rhose exulting tone 
Swelled o'er that tide * — the sons of battle 

sleep — 
The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice 

alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the 

deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splen- 
did hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse 
With all their purple mellowness of light, 
O, who could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were 
there ? 



Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs 

blow, 
'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh ; 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow. 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky j 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the 

dead. 
Verdure and flowers in summer bloom may 

smile, 
And ivy boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veil the withered 

tree ; 
And thus it is, fair land ! forsaken Greece, with 

thee. 



For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the 

tomb. 
The rose's blush that masks the canker worm. 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath 

passed ! 
So dazzling in the splendor of its sway, 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee 

cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hath been unmatched — in glory ajid 

despaix. 

2 In the naval engagements ol the Greeks, " it was usual 
for the soldiers before the fight t3 sing a pcean, or hymn, to 
Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo." — See Pottkb'i 
Antiquities of Oreece, vol. ii. p. 155. 



MODERN GREECE. 



79 



For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath 

flowed, 
The high in soul have brightly lived and died ; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glowed 
O'er the fair ai'ts it formed and gloriiied. 
Thine were the minds whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning race. 
The task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 
— Now, bowed to earth, thy children, to be free. 
Must break each link that binds their fiUal hearts 
to thee. 



Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 
Her own bright East, thj'- son, Morea ! flies,' 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest ? Alas ! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm : 
Peace dwells not now on Oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes. 
Where patriarchs reigned of old in pastoral 
repose. 



Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's 

groves. 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
lafe to his eye, as wearily it roves. 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the 

slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde 
Where sweeps the sand storm o'er the burn- 
ing wild ; 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting 

sword 
O'er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
tieldtothe injured there no shelter save the 
tomb. 

XIII. 

But thou, fair world ! whose fresh unsullied 

charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, 

1 The emigration of the natives of the Morea to differ- 
mt parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in 
nis Itiniraire de Paris d Jerusalem — " Parvenu au dernier 
degre du malheiir, le Moraite s'arrache de son pays, et va 
thercher en Asie un sort nioins rigoureux. Vain espoir! 
ll retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables 
du Juurdain et dans es deserts de Palmyre." 



Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,' 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight grandeur 

cast, 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last i 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er 

hath been. 



There by some lake, whose blue expansive 

breast 
Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed 
In tints like those that float o'er poets' dreams ; 
Or where some flood from pine- clad mountain 

pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, 
The exiled Greek hath fixed his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by IndiaP 

huntsman's feet. 



The forests are around him in their pride. 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 
And isles of flowers, bright floating o'er the 

tide,» 
That images the fairy worlds it laves. 
And stillness, and luxuriance. O'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave then- peopled bowers, 
On high the palms their graceful foliage 

spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers , 
And from those green arcades a thousana 

tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through 

Nature's temple moans. 



And there, no traces left by brighter days 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief; 

2 In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates his 
having met with several Greek emigrants who had estab 
lished themselves in the woods of Florida. 

3 '< La grace est toujours unie i la magnificence dans let 
scenes de la nature : et tandis que le couraiit du milieu en 
traine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des clienes, on 
voit sur les deux courants lateraux, remoiiter, le long des 
rivages des iles flottantes de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont les 
roses jaunes s'elevent comme de petits papillons." — Db- 
scription of the Banks of the Mississppi, Chateaubriakb' 
Atala. 



Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his 
gaze, 

The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 

There man not yet hath marked the bound- 
less plain 

With marble records of his fame and power ; 

The forest is his everlasting fane. 

The palm his monument, the rock his tower: 

Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly 
free. 



But doth the exile's heart serenely there 

In sunshine dwell ? Ah ! when was exile 

blest ? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or 

summer air. 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ? 
— There is a heartsick weariness of mood, 
Tliat like slow poison wastes the vital glow. 
And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest 

ray, 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of 

day. 



Such grief is theirs, who, fixed on foreign 

shore. 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales. 
As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar, 
For the green earth, with all its woods and 

vales. 
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells 

■with thee, 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou 

art ; 
Though thought and step in western wilds be 

free, 
Yet thine arc still the day dreams of his heart : 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's 

home. 



In vain for him the gay Hannes entwine, 

"''• the green firefly sparkles through the 

brakes, 
Or s^- 



As eve 
Ihrov 



ner winds waft odors from the pine, 

last blush is dying on the lakes, 
h thy fi\ir vales his fancy roves the 
while, 
thes the fireshness of Cithseron's height. 



Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would 

smile, 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may 

sleep, 
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' jEgean 

deep ! 



What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like 

thine ? 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) 
E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine 
Soft as a vision of remembered joy. 
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decaj', 
To laughing climes, where all is splendor still ; 
And views with fond regret thy lessening 

shore, 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no 

more. 



Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine, 
. That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Amidst the tombs of heroes — for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy 

soQ, 
Foremost in honor's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeemed and hallowed by their 

toil; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale. 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 

yet their tale. 



And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spiiits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, 
A while to dwell amidst sublimer days, 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teemj 
With proud remembrances that cannot die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And 'midst thy laurel shades the wanderei 

hears 
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of van 

ished years. 



Through that deep solitude be his to stray, 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past. 



Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic! Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time : * 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name,' 
Have left thee still in savage pomp subHme ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts and marble 

caves, 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain 

waves. 



Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, 
Where the rich Jrbute's coral berries glow,^ 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's 
flow, 



1 " Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness 
of this mountain channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with 
tlie course of the Peneus throrgh the plains of Thessaly, 
the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that tliese 
plains were once covered with water, for whicli some con- 
vulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow 
passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually em- 
ployed to describe scenery in which the predominant fea- 
tures are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has 
already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to 
the scenery at this spot, and that the phase, vale of Tempe, 

is one that depends on poetic fiction The real 

character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet 
possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the 

•oithet given to it To those who have visited 

St. Vincent's Rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more 
Bufflcient idea of Tempe than by saying that its scenery 
resembles, though on a much larger scale, tliatofthe for- 
mer place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the 
ralley, is not greatly wider than the Avon ; and the clian- 
nel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimen- 
sions : but these cliff's themselves are much loftier and 
more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock 
with still mure extraordinary abruptness over the hollow 
beneath." — Holland's TrareU In Albania, S[c. 

* The modern i^ame of the Peneus is Salympria. 

« " Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are 
peaked in a y iiy singular manner, and form projecting 
angles on toe vast perpendicular faces of rock which they 
present t.iwards the chasm ; where the surface renders it 
possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the 
most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the 
arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, 
wherever there is a small interval between the water and 
the cliff-, it is covered by the rich and widely-spreading 
foliage of the plan«. the oak, and other forest trees, which 
in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in 
various places extend their shadow far over the channel of 

the stream The rocks (m each side of the vale 

of Tempe are evidently the same ; wJiat may be called, I 
believe, a coarse, bluish-gray marble, with veins and por- 
tions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality." — 
Hou.ANo's Travels in Albania, l^c, 

u 



Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, 
As rock and stream some glancing light have 

caught, 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale, 
That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whis- 
pering through thy dale. 



He, thought entranced, may wander where 
of old 

From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapor rose, 

And trembling nations heard their doom fore- 
told 

By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and 
snows. 

Though its rich fanes be blended with the 
dust, 

And silence now the hallowed haunt pos- 
sess, 

Still is the scene of ancient rites august. 

Magnificent in mountain lonelines<» 

Still inspiration hovers o'er the ground. 
Where Greece her councils held,'' her Pythian 
victors crowned. 



Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan 

blood. 
When by the waves that break on Oita's shore, 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead,* 
Or lone Platiea's ruins yet remain 
To mark the battle field of aa;os ficd ; 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, 
grot, and bower. 



O, still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell 
Where mortal worth has hallowed grove ot 

stream. 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell 5 

* The Amphictj'onic Council was convened in spring an<* 
auturnn at Delphi or Tlierinopylie, and presided at tne 
Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth 
year. 

6 " This spot, (the field of IVIantinea,) on which so 
many brave men were laid to rest, la now covered with 
rosemary and laurels." — PouquEViLLE's Travels in tin 
JSorea. 



B2 



MODERN GREECE. 



For mightiest minds have felt their blest con- 
trol 

In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, 

Aiid these are dreams that lend a voice and 
soul. 

And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! 

And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor 
feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic 
steal ? 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there, 

Thai Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil, 

Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the 

air. 
But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; 
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws 
Polusive quiet o'er full many a scene — 
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 
That follows where the earthquake's track 

hath been ; 
Or solemn calm on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hushed 

the seamen's cries. 

XXIX. 

Ilast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurled 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doomed to resign the homage of a Avorld, 
For Pity's deepest sigh and saddest tear ? 
O, hast thou watched the awful wreck of 

mind 
That weareth still a glory in decay? 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius — to the storm a 

prey; 
And o'er the blasted tree, the withered ground. 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 

flourish round ? 



So may'st thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck 
thought. 

On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime ; 

Such there the ruin Time and Fate have 
wrought. 

So changed the bright, the splendid, the sub- 
lime. 

There the proud monuments of Valor's name, 

1 .le mighty works Ambition piled on high, 

The rich remains by Art bequeathed to 
Fame — 

Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metrv.. 



Blend in decay ; while all tnat yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath per- 
ished there ! 

XXXI. 

There, while around lie mingling in the dust 

The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o"er- 

grown, 

The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, 

The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone — 

Amidst the loneliness of shattered fanes, 

Still matchless monuments of other years — 

O'er cypress groves or solitary plains, 

Its eastern form the minaret proudlj^ rears ; 

As on some captive citv's ruined wall 
•1 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er ita 

fall 



Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, 
There science droops, the Muses hush their 

lyres. 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 
Spreads the chill blight ; as in that Orient isle 
"Where the dark upas taints the gale around,' 
Within its precincts not a flower maj' smile, 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 

XXXIII. 

Far other influence poured the Crescent's light 
O'er conquered realms, in ages passed away ; 
Full and alone it beamed, intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades. 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers 
Its sculptured lions, "■' richly-wrought arcades 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; 
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the 
gale. 

1 For the accounts of the upas or poison tree nt Java, now 
generally helicved to lie fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, 
see tlie notes to Darwin's Botanic Oanleii. 

- " The court most to be admired of t.^'e Alhambra is thai 
called the court of the Lions ; it is oriianieiited with sixty 
elegant pillars of an architecture which hears not the least 
reseinhlance to any of the known orders, and miglil ho callec' 

the Arabian order But its iirincipal ornament, 

and that from which it look its name, is an alabiu^ter cup, 
six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said 
to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solo 
ruon's tcnipie." — Bubooaiinc's TiaviUiii Spain 



MODERN GREECE. 



S'* 



XXXIV. 

Then fostered genius lent each caliph's throne 
Ijustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnumbered o'er the Orient shone, 
Bright as that Pleiad, sphered in Mecca's fane.' 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and reechoed to the desert's bound, 
And Science, wooed on Egypt's burning plains, 
Reared her majestic head with glory crowned ; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 



Those years have past in radiance — they have 

past, 
As sinks the daystar in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no soft reflection cast, 
They burn — are quenched — and deepest 

shadows reign. 
And Fame and Science have not left a trace 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's power — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower, 
Where towers Oppression 'midst the deep- 
ening glooms, 
A.8 dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the 
tombs. 

XXXVI. 

Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia poured 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall ; 
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword, 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne ; 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine I '■* 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 
O, blest .;o die in freedom, though in vain — 
Thine empire's proud exchange, the grave, and 
not the chain ! 

XXXVII. 

Hushed is Byzantium — 'tis the dead of 

night — 
The closing night of that imperial race ! ^ 



" Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes Ara- 
i)i()iies son* 'lesignes par les ecrivains Orientaiix sous le 
iioiii de Ple'iade Arabique, et leurs ouvrages etaient sus- 
pendus autour de la Cai.'^a, ou Mosque de la Mecque." — 
BisMONDi, Litteratare du Midi. 

2 " The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more 
{lorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Caesaro." 
— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 226. 

* See the description of the night previous ti *he taking 



And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to 

die ; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane, 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions 
rise, 
There kneels the high-souled prince, the sum- 
moned of the skies. 

XXXVIII. 

Day breaks in light and glory — 'tis the 

hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart 

walls. 
Far o'er Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in everj' note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of 

steel ; 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle 

float ; 
From camp and wave rush on the Crescent's 

host, 
And the Seven Towers* are scaled, and all is 

won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece ! the tempest rose that burst on 

thee, 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
O, where were then thy sons, the great, thfc 

free, 
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to 

age? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and 

snows. 
And bright the memory of th)-^ days of pride, 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortress 

rose. 
On, unresisted, rolled tV invading tide ! 
O, vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 

quercd power. 



of Constantinople by Mahomet II. — Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall, &.V.., vol. xii. p. 22,5. 

4 "This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) ia 
mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian 
era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constan- 
tinople ; and it was the principal bulwark of the town oa 
the coast of the Propontis, in tlie last periods of the en* 
pire " - PorQDcviixE's Travels in tlu Morea 



u 



MODERN GREECE. 



^\^lere were th' avengers then, whose view- 
less might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,' 
When through the steep defiles to Delphi's 

height, 
In martial splei dor poured the Persian's train ? 
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Armed with the elements, to vengeance wake, 
CaU. the dread storms to darken round their 

towers, 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders 

break ; 
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, 
Bounds of unearthly war through wild Parnas- 
sus rang. 



Where was the spirit of the victor throng 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song, 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified ? 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose ^ 
All armed ; and beaming on the Athenians' 

gaze, 
A battle meteor, guided to their foes ? 
Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck 

eye,* 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed in airy panoply ? 



Ye slept, O heroes ! chief ones of the earth ! * 
High demigods of ancient days ! ye slept : 
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept. 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led, 



1 See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural de- 
fence of Delphi. — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. pp. 39li-7. 

2 " In succeeding ages the Athenians honored Theseus as 
a deniigcd, induced to it as well by other reasons as be- 
cause, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a 
eonsiderable part of the army thought they saw the appa- 
rition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down be- 
(ore them upo'i the barbarians." — Lanohohne's Plutarch, 
Life of Theseus. 

3 " From Thermopylae to Sparta, the leader of the Goths 
(Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering 
any mortal antagonist ; but one of the advocates of expiring 
paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens 
were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable 
Bgis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the 
eonqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile de- 
ties of Greece." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. v. 
p. 183. 

4 " Even ill the ehitf ones of the earth." — Isaiah, xiv. 



In mountain pass dfcfotbdiy to die ; 
The martyr spirit oj: resolve was fled, 
And the high sout's unconquered buoyancy ; 
And by your graves, and on your batrie plains 
Warriors ! your cnildren knelt to wear th 
stranger s chains. 

XLIII. 

Now have your trophies vanished, djid youi 

homes 
Are mouldered from the earth, while scarca 

remain 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, 
The lyres are hushed that swelled your fama 

afar, 
The halls that echoed to their sounds arp 

gone. 
Perished the conquering weapons of youi 

war;* 
And if a mossy stone your names retain, 
'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in 

vain. 



Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hushed regret. 
And still have legends marked the lonely 

spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again. 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw 

your glory's reign. 



Lo ! where th' Albanian spreads his despot 

sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plaiP 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey. 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains ; 
O, doth the land that gave Achilles birth. 
And many a chief of old illustrious line. 
Yield not one spirit of unconquered worth 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine ? 
No ! on its mountain air is slavery's breath, 
And terror chills the hearts whose uttered 
plaints were death. 

5 " How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons o» wai 
perished ! " — Samuel, book ii. chap. i. 



Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime, 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral val- 
leys fair. 
And walled with mountains, haughtily sub- 
lime ! 
Heights that might well be deemed the Muses' 

reign, 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild do- 
main — 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where nought of earth may e'er 
intrude, 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 



mere in rude grandeur daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height ; 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure 

bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride. 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 
(jrlrdled with mists, light floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, 
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 



Those savage cliffs and soKtudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot 

would roam ; 
She loves to dwell by glen aiid torrent stream. 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain flood. 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry, 
1 1 sweeping winds that peal through cave 

and wood, 
Theie is a voice of stern sublimity. 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But from those Rills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanished long, her step hath fled afar ; 
O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused a while,' 
Kindling the watchfires of the mountain war. 



1 For several interesting particulars relatii e to the Suli- 
Dfe warfare witb Ali Pasha, see Iollano's rravels in Al- 



And brightly glowed her ardent spirit there, 
Still brightest 'midst privation : o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendor, and despair 
But fanned that beacon of the wilderness ; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying yoic4 
to swell. 



Dark children of the hills ! 'twas then j« 

wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought. 
And women mingled with your warrior bani 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood ' 
High on the river's darkly- rolling wave, 
And hurled, in dread delirium, to the flood 
Her free-born infant, ne'r to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild indignant death of savage liberty. 



Now is that strife a tale of vanished days. 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory stiL 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan. 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 



For stillness now — the stillness of the dead — 
Hath wrapped that conflict's lone and awful 

scene ; 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, 
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain J 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, 
Where Freedom's banner may be reared again ; 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame. 
The children of her sons inherit but their name, 



Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanea 
In scattered fragments o'er the vale they lie ; 



2 " It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of 
Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoin- 
ing the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the 
chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the 
enemy." — Uoixano's Travels. &.C , 



86 



MODERN GREECE. 



Of all they were not e'en enough remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty.' 
iiirthplace of those whose names we first re- 
vered 
In song and story — temple of the free ! 
O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the feared, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee .' 
Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, 
A.nde'euin ruin claimed the wonder of mankind. 



For thine were spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test ; 
They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the 

bold. 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind. 
One image stamped the rough, colossal race. 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind. 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace ; 
A.S to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
W hose front can brave the storm, but will not 

rear the flower. 



Such were thy sons — their life a battle day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is that task, and they have passed away 
Like softer beings trained to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly feU, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy 

cause, 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws ! * 
O lofty mother of heroic worth. 
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner off- 
spring forth ? 



Hadst thou but perished with the free, nor 

known 
A second race, when glorj''s noon went by. 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watchword on the helm of liberty ! 
Thou shouldst have passed with all the light 

of fame, 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains, 



1 The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, 
»re very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site 
•f the ancient city. The scenery around them is described 
Dy travellers as very striking. 

2 The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan 
monument in the pass of Thermopylee has been thus trans- 
•atsd : " Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have 
ibeyed tiieir laws, and that we lie here," 



But slowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame, 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drained the bitter cup once mingled fox 
thy slaves. 



Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 

Freedom's bright noon and slavery's twilighl 
cloud ; 

And in thy fall, as in thy pride alone. 

Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. 

Home of Leonidas ! thy halls are low ; 

From their cold altars have thy Lares fled ; 

O'er thee, unmaiked, the sunbeams fade or 
glow, 

And wild flowers wave, unbent by human 
tread ; 

And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's pro- 
found, 
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthlv 
sound. 

LVIII. 

Taj'getus still lifts his awful brow 
High o'er the mouldering city of the dead, 
Sternly sublime ; while o'er his robe of snow 
Heaven's floating tints their warm suff'usions 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain ; 
While, whispering there, his own wild grace- 
ful reeds 
Rise as of old, when hailed by classic strain , 
There the rose laurels still in beauty wave,* 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 
grave. 



0, thus it is with man ! a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have passed 

away. 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay. 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased 

to be ; 

• " In the Eurotas 1 observed abundance of those Inmous 
reeds which were known in the earliest ages ; and all th« 
rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose laurels 
while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tubt 
roses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis." — Poi/ttucviixE' 
Travels in the Morea. 



MODERN GREECE. 



87 



Grwp waves the bay when song and bard are 
fled, 
A.nd all that round us blooms is blooming o'er 
the dead. 



And still the olive spreads its foliage round 

Mr tea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. 

Ojice its green boughs Minerva's votaries 

crowned, 
D<.emed a meet offering for celestial powers. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ; ' 
They waved around the Olympic victor's head ; 
Ani, sauct'fied by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honored bier o'er- 

spre^d. 
Th(x.o rites have vanished — but o'er vale and 

hill 
[t& fruittul groves arise, revered and hallowed 

stjU.* 



Where now thy shrines, Eleusis ! where thy 

fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high ? 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, 
The long procession's awful pageantry ? 
Quenched is the torch of Ceres ^ — all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign ; 
There nevermore shall choral hymns re- 
sound 
O'er the hushed earth and solitary main, 
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 



And O, ye secret and terrific powers ! 

Dark oracles ! in depth of groves that dwelt, 

How are they sunk, the altars of your bow- 
ers. 

Where Superstition trembled as she knelt ! 

Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that 
made 

The elements your voice, the wind and wave ; 

1 It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch 
bound with wool. 

s The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded 
with veneration by the people of the Morea. 

3 It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the 
festival, for men and women to run about with torches in 
their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to 
contend who should present the largest. This was done in 
memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, 
during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the 
Barnes of ^tna. — Pobteb's Antiquities of Qreece, vol. L 
p. 392. 



Spirits ! whose influence darkened many a 

shade. 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long j'our power the awe-struck nation! 

swayed, 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingl* 

obeyed ! 



And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth wa« 

not. 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and 

grot? 
Awful is nature in her savage forms. 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might. 
And mysterj' then was in the rush of storms, 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night ; 
And mortals heard Fate's language in the 

blast. 
And rear'd your forest shrines, ye phantoms of 

the past ! 



Then throu ;h the foliage not a breeze might 

bigh 
But with prophetic sound — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight revealed the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures, and conveyed 
Their inspiration ; still they hovered round, 
Hallowed the temple, whispered through tha 

shade. 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmured still, 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 

the hiU. 



Now is the train of Superstition flown ! 
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentoui 

tone, 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. 
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's ca-vo. 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and stetp ; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave,* 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terroi 

sleep. 

•* The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Her- 
cynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks neal 
Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, ia 
their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained. — See Hd 
land's Travel$ 



86 



MODERN GREECE. 



that such dreams alone had fled that clime ! 
But Greece is changed in all that could be 
changed by time ! 



Her skies are those whence many a mighty 

bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams ; 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, 
Her vales, that fostered Art's divinest dreams ! 
But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, 
And all around pervading influence poured, 
That lent the harp of ^schylus its tone, 
And proudly hallowed Lacedaemon's sword, 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone. 
With them its ardors lived — with them its light 

is flown. 



Thebes, Corinth, Argos! — ye renowned of 

old. 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name ? 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame. 
The work of centuries. We gaze on you, 
O cities ! once the glorious and the free, 
The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew. 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could 

be? 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb. 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their 

doom! 

Lxvm. 
How oft hath war his host of spoilers poured. 
Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales ! ' 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear 

and sword, 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas ; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke : 
Thou too hast heard the storm, and bowed be- 
neath the yoke. 



And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echoed than the strain 



1 Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants 
••iiig consideied as consecrated to the service of Jupiier. 
All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, 
tnd received them again when they had passed its boundary. 



Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seata, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain swain 
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, 
On his green banks renewed, the classic dancBj 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodiou* 

lays. 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old r'jmancc ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell 
'Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 

and dell. 



But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-iilumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; 
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day 
Didst first imbibe the splendors of the light, 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; 
O, let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past a while restored, the present but a dream 



Let Fancy's vivid hues a while prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more 
Hark ! hjTnns of triumph swell on every 

gale — 
Lo ! bright processions move along thy shore , 
Again thy temples, midst the olive shade, 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent 

skies ! 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly 

mien. 
In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright 

scene. 



Again renewed by Thought's creative spells. 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
There marble fanes in finished grace ascend. 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows, 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 



2 " We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was tbi 
province of Greece in which population firot became settled 
and where the earliest progress was made towards civiliza 
tion." — MiTPOBD'i Oreece, vol. i. p. 35w 



MODERN GREECE. 



81 



Lxxin. 
Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana' s wand,' 
On summer seas that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand j 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades. 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest. 
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, 
Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast ; 
Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears, 
A.S Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of 
years. 

LXXIV. 

Still he that cloud withdrawn — O, mark on 

high, 
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane, august in perfect symmetry. 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
In simple dignity, thy marble^s hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies. 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal 

blue; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
fhe harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 



And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow. 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendor reign, 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencU emulates in vain. 
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, un- 
fold 
Each latent grace, developing in light ; 
Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold. 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 



1 Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, 
nrhich is thouglit by the lower order of Sicilians to be the 
work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, 
Whose account is quoted by Swinburne: — 

" On tlie 15th August, 1643, 1 was surprised, as I stood at 
my window, witli a most wonderful spectacle : the sea that 
washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten 
miles ill length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the 
waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in 
an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this 
glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thou- 
iands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees 
of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, 
like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at 
the top, and above :t rose innumerable castles, all perfectly 
alike ; these again changed into towers, which were shortly 
after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in 
pines, cypresses, and other tre«s." — Swinburnx'* Travels 
in the Tvo SUilUi. 

12 



And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems. 
While so sulfused with heaven, so mingling with 
its beams. 



But O, what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine I 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's 

array. 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flo-fting 

vest. 
And sculptured aegis, to perfection wrought ; 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest, 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought — 
The pure intelUgence, the chaste repose — 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws 

LXXVII. 

Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 
Through time's deep shadows all thy splen- 
dor trace. 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race : 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow. 
Fostered by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes formed, and o'er theiz 
name. 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 

Lxxvm. 
Mark in the thronged Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyred brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain. 
Holy the amaranth strewed upon their grave !■ 
And hark ! unrivalled eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice ! 
Hark ! Pericles records their honored names ! ' 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 



s All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by 
the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorn- 
ing tombs ; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians dec- 
orated the tomb of Achilles. — PoTTlta ( Antiquities oj 
Ch-ecee, vol. ii. p. 232. 

3 Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of 
Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies ot 
his countrymen who foil in that war, and pronounced him- 
self the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained 
him great applause ; and when he came down from the ros. 
trum the women paid their respects to him, and presented 
him with crowns and chaplets, like a champicm just returned 
victorious from the lists. — L^nohorne's Plntarch, Lift tl 
Pericles. 



•0 



MODERN GREECE. 



Whut hath life brighter than so bright a 
doom ? 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of 
the tomb ? 

LXXIX. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust lier skill, their triumph's bodying 

forth ; 
Theirs are cnshrin6d names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazoned impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame 

shall rise, 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record ; 
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, 
Their name shall be their country's rallying 

word ! 
While fiine and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honors those for her who proudly 

fell. 

txxx. 

City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, 
Thus hiillowed by the memory of the dead : 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveli- 
est ray. 
'Tis but a vision now — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray : 
And every stone with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to Avake some lofty 
thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fallen arc thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies and tragic lore ; 
Now is the Ijtc of Sophocles unstrung. 
The song that hailed Harmodius peals no 

more. 
Thy proud Piraius is a desert strand. 
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their 

hill. 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's 

hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent ' — her image gone ; 
Bilent the sage's bower — the warrior's tomb 

o'erthrown. 

1 The pcpliis, which is supposed to have been suspended as 
tn awning over Ihe statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, 
W»B a principal onianient of the Panathenaic festival ; and it 
was embroidered with various colors, representing the battle 
•f the gods and Titans, and the ex] luits of Athenian heroes 



LXXXII. 

Yet in decay thine exquisite remaLis 
Wondering we view, and silently revere, 
As traces left on earth's forr.akea plains 
By vanished beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Home, 
All that dominion there hctb let't to time 
Proud Coliseum, or coinmanii^;: don^e, 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublhne. 
Can bid such reverence o'er the ppirit steal 
As aught by thee imprest with bea»»tv « plus}' 
seal. 

LXXXIII. 

Though still the empress of th« <»iuitnnu 

waste, 
Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 
Though with rich gold ''' and massy sn^lptur* 

graced. 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nfle 
The first-born temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en j'^et displaj'S ; 
City of Pericles ! O, who, like thee, 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand 

may be ? 

Lxxxrv. 
Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere 
"Where sovereign beauty dwells ; and thence 

didst bear, 
O, stm triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlightened mind hatl» 

flown 
As to her country, — thou hast been to earth 
A cynosure, — and, e'en from victory's throne. 
Imperial Home gave homage to thy worth , 
And nations, rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 



When the festival was celebrated, the pepliis was broughl 
from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, 
which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicua 
and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit 
of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Par- 
thenon, and consecrated to Minerva. — See CHA.not.Ea'i 
Travels, Stuart's Athena, S[C. 

2 The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, accor* 
ing to Winckelmann, in high preservation. 



MODERN GREECE. 



91 



For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be ! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie, 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,— 
To leave on earth renown that cannot die. 
Of high-souled genius is th' unrivalled lot. 
Honor to thee, O Athens ! thou hast shown 
IVhat mortals may attain, and seized the palm 
alone. 

LXXXVI. 

O, live there those who view with scornful 
eyes 

All that attests the brightness of thy prime ? 

Ves, they who dwell beneath thy lovely 
skies, 

And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 

Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 

Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest 
arts ; 

Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 

Not one proud thrill of loftier thought im- 
parts. 

Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where Genius first revealed the triumphs of 
his hand ! 

Lxxx■v^I. 
J^or them in vain the glowing light may smile 
O'er the pale marble, coloring's warmth to 

shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lifts its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have 

not reared ; 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their 

toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered — 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
tVhate'er might prove that land had nursed a 

nobler race. 

LXXXVIII. 

And who may grieve that, rescued from their 

hands. 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands. 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart ? 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Eixed in deep reverence on Minerva's fane, 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of 

light. 
All that remained of forms adored in vain ; 



A few short years — and vanished from the 
scene, 
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot 
had been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone I 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first re- 
vered. 
And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that reared 
Thy walls ; and thou — their fate must soon 

be thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renewed in aught like 
thee? 

xc. 
Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which 

moaned 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ru"n! on thy sacred hill. 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have 

shared : 
Yet art thou honored in each fragment stUl 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne, 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet 

unborn. 



Yes ! m those fragments, though by time de- 
faced 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlightened ej'e of taste, 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crushed myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! ' 
The soul of Athens lives in every line. 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine 

XCII. 

Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
, The holy festival's triumphal throng, 

1 " In the most broken fragment, the same great principle 
of life can be proved to exist as in the most [lerfect figure," it 
one of the observaiiona of Mr. Hayclou on the Elgin .Marbles 



91 



MODERN GREECE. 



In fair procession to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred sj-mbol, move along. 
Tliere every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's cahn austerity of grace, 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs 

proud mien — 
Kacii ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 

scene. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,' 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm,* 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole ; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear ; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 



O conquering Genius ! that couldst thus de- 
tain 
The subtUe graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign, 
Airest Avarm life in all its energies. 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine ; while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquished 

fate! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders 
birth, 
rhe realms that hailed them now scarce claimed 
a name on earth. 



Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return ? 



1 " Every thing here hreathes h'fe, with a veracity, with an 
exquisite kiiuwled^e of art, hut without the least ostentation 
or parade of it, whicti is concealed hy consummate and mas- 
terly skill." — Cahova's L'lter iu the Earl of Elgin. 

2 Mr. West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's 
bead in I^ird Klgin's cullection of Atlienian Bculpture, thus 
proceeds : " We feel the same, when we view the young 
equestrian Ath'»:iians, and, in observing them, we are in- 
lensibly carried on with the impresHion that they and their 
borse!< actually existed, ati we see them, at the instant when 
they were convened into marble." — Weit'i Stcoad Letter 

Lard Elgin, 



No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- 
newed — 
A light inherent — let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; 
For still is nature fair, and thought di 
vine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure ai 
thine.'* 



Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced — 

Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 

Their virtual grandeur could not be erased ; 

It clothes them still, though veiled from com- 
mon eyes. 

They once were gods and heroes * — and be- 
held 

As the blest guardians of their native scene } 

And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have 
swelled 

With awe that owned their sovereignty of 
mien. 

Ages have vanished since those hearts were 
cold. 
And still those shattered forms retain their god- 
like mould. 

xcvn. 

'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 
throne 

They have looked down on thousand storms 
of time; 

Surviving power, and fame, and freedom 
flown. 

They still remained, still tranquilly sublime ! 

Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave 
marred. 

The Olympian groups have sunk, and are for- 
got— 

8 Mr. Flaxnian thinks that sculpture has very great'y im- 
proved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion 
is liot singular — because works of such prime importance .is 
the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without 
a consequent improvement of ihe public taste and the talents 
of the artist. — See the Evidence g ven in i eply lo Interrog* 
lories from the Committee on the Elgin M-rb e : 

i The Theseus and [lissus, which are considered hy Sir T. 
Lawrence, Mr. Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, 
to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvedere, " because 
there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more 
true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the 
baman frame, than there is in the Apollo, or any of the othei 
uore celebrated statues." — See Tht Evidence, ic. 




TIKIE rfAHSTKlEK 



fair Partlienoi] ! yet slill miisL ' Fan c^-- weep 
For Gicc, thou wort of xiohler spirits fl.owjT 
Bri^lit, as of old the siuJ-m • aio ,: l.'lt tlieo sleep 
Jn llII Llieir leaiiJv slill — auO ituiM is PDiie-! 



/ 



I 



Not e'en their dust could weeping Athena 

guard ; 
But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 
And they have borne, to light another land, 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously 

expand. 

xcnii. 
Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thine, 
In human works thus blending earth and 

heaven, 
Over nature's truth had spread that grace 

divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ? 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could from their ruins bid young Genius 

tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ; 
And guide deep Thought to that secluded 

height 
Where excellence is throned in purity of light ? 



And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, 
Oaught from these models, may illume the 

west? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame,' 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, England ! that by climes con- 
fined. 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ; * 
Deem not the eternal energies of mind 
Swayed by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be fostered but by skies serene ? 
No! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er 
hath been. 

1 " Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, 
endowed witli powers sui:h as enabled Michael Angelo to 
advance the arts, as he did, l)y the aid of one mutilated speci- 
men of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence 
might not such a genius carry art, by tlie opportunity of 
studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned 
Ihe temple of Minerva at Athens ! " — West's Second Letter 
'■0 Lora Klain. 

2 In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, 
Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in 
the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts. 
— See Hoake's Epochs of the Arts, pp. 84, 85. 

EXTKACTS FROM CONTEMPOKAKY REVIEWS. 

Blackv)oo(Vs Magazine. — " In our reviews of poetical pro- 
ductions, the l)etter efforts of genius hold out to us a task at 
once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. 
In the fi.nner the beautiful predominate, and expose while 
Ihey excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would re- 
tei\'e no beiict?t from a de'ail of mediocrity, relieved only by 



But thine are treasures oft unprized, un- 
known, 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, 
O'er whose young ardors had thy smile but 

shone, 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! 
And many a gifted hand, ihat might have 

wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant 
coast, 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 
thus lost. 



Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone ! 

Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 

Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine 

own ; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be thou their 

sun! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep, 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, 
And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glo- 
rious race ! " 



the censure of faults uncompensated by excellences. We 
have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to 
the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the 
work of the same lady who last year put lier name to the 
second edition of another poem (m a kindred subject, ' The 
Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy ' — namely, Mrs. 
Ilemans, of North Wales. That the autlior's fame has not 
altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think 
is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experien- 
cing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had 
its day. Very recently, the reading public, as tlie phrase is, 
was immersed in poetry, hut seems lo have had enough ; 
and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to 
relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, ami will 
never tire of the exquisite enjoyment whicli it rffords the 
said public seldom read poetry at all. 

" But so little is that e.xcitement which the hulk of readers 
covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers 
have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are 
regarding all their late rhythmical favorites alike, with that 
sort of ingratitude with which repletion woii'd lead them to 
regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from th« 
table. But this is no proof that these great poets liave for- 
feited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which 
stand just where they did, and sihine just as they were wont 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. 



*' Siaino nati vemiiiente in un secolo in cui gl 'ingegni e gli stiidj degli uomini sono rivoiti all' utility. L' Agriciltnia, l| 
Ani, il Ciiiiiinercio nniuistano tiitto <li novi lumi dalle ricerclie de' Saggi ; e il voler farsi un uomo lentcndo di dUettar\ 
quaud' altri v' uspira cuii piii giustizia giovando, seiubra iinpresa dura e difficile." — Savioli, 



SONNET 70. 

" Na metade do ceo subldo ardia," 

Hian in the glowing heavens, with cloudless 
beam, 
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign, 
A.nd for the living fount, the gelid stream, 

Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 
'Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade. 
The birds had sheltered from the scorching 
ray ; 
Hushed were their melodies — and grove and 
glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay : 
When, through the grassy vale, a lovelorn 

swain, 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 
Breathing vain siglis of fruitless passion, 
roved : 
«• Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
•' By whom thou art not loved ? " and thus replied 
An echo's murmuring voice — '• Thou art not 
loved J " 



SONNET 282. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 

" Na ribeira de Euprates assentado." 

Rapt in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days forever flown, 

although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves 
the o|ipi)site way. Km il'the world will turn from the poet, 
whatever he his uierii, there is an end of his popularity, 
inasmuch as tlie niosl approved conductor of the latter is the 
ihultitude, as essentially as is ihe airof the sound of his voice. 
Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers ; and poetry, 
high as il may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially 
speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet 
poetry will still be pietry, however it may cease to pay ; and 
although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still 
Fmall voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler 
incense of the latter will ever he its reward. 

"Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author 
like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale 
the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with senti- 
ment and feeling, and delight tlie ear with music, without 
the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a 
^lect lew, ana passed almost unnoticed by the multitude. 

• With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the 



While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 

O much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone : 
When they who caused the ceaseless tears ] 
shed. 
Thus to their captive spoke — "Why sleep 
thy lays ? 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thj' splendor flod, 

And all thy triumphs in departed days ! 
Know'st thou not Harmony's nesistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm r 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thin* 
eye." 
With sighs I answered — " When the cup of 

woe 
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, 
The mourner's cure is not to sing — but d e.' 



PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

" Se 14 no assento da maior alteza." 

If in thy glorious home above 

Thou still recaUest earthly love. 

If yet retained a thought may be 

Of him whose heart hath bled for thee j 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind : 
Each well-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten — thou alone art there ! 

theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly con- 
trasted ancient with modern Greece. 

" The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection 
has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome ; and no'h- 
ing can be more spirited than the passages in which the 
author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient ■ 
glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most 
celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring 
our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, 
our extracts may be limited." 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — " The grand act of retribu- 
tion — the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre — occa- 
sioned Mrs. Henians's first publication. ' Modem Greece ' 
next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions ot 
beauty and pathos. It is a highly-promising symptom, that 
each new eflbrt of her genius excels its predecessor. The 
present volume strikingly confirms this olisen'ation, and 
leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than tXa 
I trials of her strength." 



Remember that thine eyebeam's light 
Hath fled forever from his sight, 
And, with that vanished sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherished most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart, 
Is all but weariness of heart ; 
Each stream, whose music once was dear, 
Now murmurs discord to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days. 
Now, in the light of beauty drest, 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him. 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve. 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So altered by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



SONNET 271. 

" A formosura desta fresca serra." 

This mountain scene with sylvan grandeur 
crowned, 
These chestnut woods in summer verdure 
bright ; 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound 

Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 
Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray ; 
This clime, where all is new ; these murmur- 
ing seas ; 
Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way ; 
Light clouds, contending with the genial 
breeze ; 
And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense. 

Ne'er in thy absence can delight my breast : 
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles : 
And joy may beam ; yet, 'midst her brightest 
smiles, 
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. 



SONNET 186. 
" Os olhos onde O casto Amor ardia." 
fHOsiE eyes, whence Love diffused his purest 
light, 
Prou I in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 



That face, wil h tints of mingling lustre bright. 

Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow 
The rich redundance of that golden hair. 

Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair. 

Where now those treasures? — mouldering 
into clay ! 
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, 
Hath young Perfection withered in its morn, 

Touched by the hand that gathers but to 
blight ! 
O, how could Love survive his bitter tears ! 
Shed, not for hor, who mounts to happier spheres, 

But for his own sad fate, thus wrajiped in 
starless ni"ht ! 



SONNET 108. 
" Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando." 

Fair Tajo ! thou whose calmly-flowing tide 

Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide. 

Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs 
and swains. 
Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 

Shall tread thy shores ; and while to part I 
mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain, 

No dream that whispers — I may yet return ' 
My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair. 

Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine 
And I must vaiulj' mourn the scenes I fly, 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigl , 

And blend my tears with other waves tha*. 
thine ! 



SONNET 23. 

TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 
" Cliara minim iiiimiga, era cuja mao." 

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave, 

O fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, 

Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despaii 
Yes ! the wild seas intomb those charms divine. 

Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine. 

Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soiu 
And if the tones of my uncult ired song 
Have power the sad remembrance to prolong 



90 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Of love 80 ardent, and of faith so pure ; 
Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, 
Still shall thy charms be dcatliless in my strain, 

While Time, aod Love, and Memory shall 
eudiue. 



SONNET 19. 
" Alma minba gentil, que te partiste." 

Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 

The jo\lcss precincts of this earthly sphere, 
How is yon Heaven eternally thine own. 

Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here ! 
0, if allowed in thy divine abode 

Of aught on earth an image to retain. 
Remember still the fervent love which glowed 

In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 
And if thou deemed that all my faithful grief, 
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief. 

Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! 
0, ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away. 
That I may join thee in those realms of day, 

Swiftly as thou hast vanished from mine eyes. 



" Que estranho caso de amor ! " 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 

How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, 

\\ ith avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine. 

My lot would then be deeper woe 

And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears I may not dare 

Unfold the cause, the pain 1 prove ; 
'Twould plunge in ruin and despair 

Or me, or her I love. 
My soul delights alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected woe, 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus btiried in my bosom's urn, 

Thus in my inmost heart concealed, 
Let me alone the secret mourn. 

In pangs unsoothed and unrevealed. 
For whether happiness or woe, 
Or life or death its power bestow. 
It is what none on earth must know. 



SONNET 53. 
" Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata." 



Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 

Yet long enough protract his votary's days 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart. 

The loadstars ' now that fascinate my gaze ; 
To see rude Time the living roses blight 

That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold. 
And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright 

To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 
O, then thy heart an equal change will prove. 
And mourn the coldness that repelled my love, 

When tears and penitence will all be vain • 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 

Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 



SONNET 178. 
" J4 cantei, j4 chorei a dura gucrra." 

Oft have I sung and mourned the bitter woes 

Which love for years have mingled with my 
fate. 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose. 

That taught his votaries their deluded state. 
Nymphs, who dispense Castalia's living stream, 

Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal. 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, 

Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 
That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay — 

HoAV false his smiles, his promises how vain I 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive 15're, 

Forever hushed, shall slumber in your fane. 



SONNET 80. 
" Como quando do mar teinpestuoso." 

Sated from the perils of the stormy wave. 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 

But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
No more shall lure him from the smiles ot 
home ! 

t «» Your eyes are loaostara " — Uhakspeaiis. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



w 



Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 

Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to 
roam. 
Lady ! thus T, who vainly oft in flight 
Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 

Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free : 
But my fond heart, devoted to its chain. 
Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 
, And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



SONNET 239. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 
" Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando." 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 

Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, 
O hallowed Sion ! and the vanished years, 

When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : 
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 

Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, 

Our foes demanded from their captive band. 
'' How shall our voices, on a foreign shore," 
(We answered those whose chains the exile 
wore, ) 

" The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? 
If I forget, 'midst grief and wasting toil, 
Thee, O Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 

May my right hand forget its cunning too ! " 



SONNET 128. 
" Huma admiravel herva se conliece." 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour 
to hour 
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns. 
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power. 
And most expands when most her idol burns : 
But when he seeks the bosom, of the deep. 

His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolored 
weeji, 
Still fondly pining for the vanished ray. 
Thou whom I love, the daystar of mj-^ sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 

Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaveii of smiles alone it blooms, 
A.nd, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, 
Born but to live within thine ev»beam's 
power. 

13 



" Polomeu apartamento " 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 
In anguish at my last farewell, 
O, who would dream that joy could dweHf 

To make that moment bright ? 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say, 
Which then could most my bosom sway, 

Affliction or delight ? 

It was when Hope, oppressed with woes, 
Seemed her dim eyes in death to close. 
That rapture's brightest beam arose 

In sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 
'Tis that my fate o'ereame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For O, her love, so long unknown. 
She then confessed was all my own, 
And in that parting hour alone 

Revealed it to my sight. 
And now what pangs will rend my soul, 
Should fortune still, with stern control, 

Forbid me this delight ! 

I know not if my bliss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign. 

When exiled from her sight ; 
Yet now what double woe for me, 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight ! 



SONNET 205 
"Quem diz que Amor he falso, O eiigHi.osi 

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, 

Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways. 
Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 

Too justly finds him all he thus portrays : 
For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. 

Believe not him who dares the tale oppose ; 
O, deem him one whom stormy passions blind, 

One to whom earth and heaven may well be 
foes. 
If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! 
Here let the world his utmost rigor see, 

His utmost power exerted to annoy : 
But all his ire is still the ire of love ; 
And such delight in all his woes I prove, 

I would not change their pangs for aught of 
other joy. 



18 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SONNET 133. 
" Doceg e claras agiias do Mondego." 

WAf£8 of Mondcj!;o ! brilliant and serene, 

Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly 
strays, 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 

"Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 
Yes, I Ibrsakc your banks ! but still my heart 

Shall bid remembrance all your charms re- 
store. 
And, suft'cring not one image to depart, 

Find lengthening distance but endear you 
more. 
Let Fortune's will, through many a future day. 
To distant realms this mortal frame conve)"-. 

Sport of each Avind, and tossed on every wave ; 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true. 
On thought's light pinion still shall fly to j'ou. 

And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. 



SONNET 181. 
" Onde acharei lugar tao apartado." 

Where shall I find some desert scene so rude. 

Where loneliness so undisturbed may reign. 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 

Of roving man, or nature's savage train — 
Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear. 

Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb. 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 

13 ut darkly suited to my spirit's gloom ? 
Tliat there, 'midst frowning rocks, alone with 

grief 
Intombed in life, and hopeless of relief. 

In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. 
For 0, since nought my sorrows can allay. 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal daj'. 

And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



SONNET 278. 
*' Ea vivia de lagrimas isento." 

Exempt tTom every grief, 'twas mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 

A thousand joys propitious Love can give 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of 
mine. 

Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power ; 



No care intruding to disturb my breast, 

I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower •, 
But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, 
And bade the phantoms of dehght begone • 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart. 
And left but memory to distract my heirt, 
Retracing every hour of bliss forever flomx. 



" Mi nueve y duke querella." 

No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is thrown ; 

No outward signs reveal its tale, 
But to my bosom known. 

Thus, like the spark whose vivid light 

In the dark flint is hid from sight 
It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 
" Dunque si sfoga in pianto." 

In tears, the heart oppressed with grief 
Gives language to its woes ; 

In tears, its fulness finds relief. 
When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 

Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek 

On this terrestrial sphere ; 
When e'en Delight can only speak. 

Like Sorrow — in a tear ? 



" Al furor d' avversa Sorte." 

He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien. 
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, 

Whose soul hath learned, through many a try- 
ing scene, 
To smile at fate, and suff"cr unsubdued. 

In the rough school of billows, clouds, andstotnui, 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: 

Thus Fate's dread ire, hy manj' a confli'^t, form* 
The lofty spirit and enduring hf.ai t ! 



" duella onda die nnna." 

The torrent wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous dowTi the Alpine height, 



TRANSLATIONS 



K 



Complains and struggles in its course, 
But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 

The stream in shadowy valley deep 
May slumber in its narrow bed ; 

But silent, in unbroken sleep. 
Its lustre and its life are fled. 



" Leggiadra rosa, le cul pure foglie." 

Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand 
Her fostering dews the Morning lightlj'- 
shed, 
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms 
fanned, 
And o'er thj- leaves the soft suffusion spread : 
That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the 
ground. 
To brighter worlds thy favored charms hath 
borne ; 
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crowned. 
There breathe and bloom, released from every 
thorn. 
Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower ! 

Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 

Sheltered with tenderest care from frost or 

shower. 

And each rough season's chill vicissitude. 

Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 

Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 



Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine." 

Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like 
these f 
Ihink'st thou that / thy threatening mien shall 
dread, 
f>.' t,oil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? 
Resowe the frown severe, the menace rude, 
For vassal spirits that confess thy sway ! 
My constant soul should triumph unsubdued, 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried ? 
No ! I have long thine utmost power defied. 

And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the 

wheel. 
With each successive shock the tempered steel 
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling 
bright 



" Parlagli d' un periglio." 

WouLDST thou to Love of danger speak ' 
Veiled are his ej'es, to perils blind ! 

Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek ? 
He is a child of wayward mind ! 

But with a doubt, a jealous fear, 
Inspire him once — the task is o'er ; 

His mind is keen, his sight is clear, 
No more an infant, blind no more. 



" Sprezza il furor del vento." 

Unbending 'midst the wintry skies. 
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form. 

And stern in rugged strength, defies 
The rushing of the storm. 

Then severed from his native shore, 
O'er ocean worlds the sail to bear, 

Still with those winds he braved before, 
He proudly struggles there 



" Sol pu6 dir che sia contento." 

O, THOSE alone whose severed hearts 

Have mourned through lingering years in valiv 

Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, 
When Fate unites them once again. 

Sweet is the sigh, ajid blest the tear. 

Whose language hails that moment bright, 

When past afflictions but endear 
The presence of delight ! 



" Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle ! " 

Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain ! 

I go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain^ 

To triumph — not to die ' 

I with fresh laurels go to crown 

My closing days at last, 
Securing aU the bright renown 

Acquired in dangers past. 



zoo 



TRANSLATIONS. 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 
" Italia ! Italia ! O tu cui dii la sorte." 

[talia ! O Italia ! thou so graced 
With ill-starred beauty, wliich to thee hath 
been 
4. do'.ver whose fatal splendor may be traced 
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy niein ; 
O, that more strength, or fewer charms were 
thine ! 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee 
less, 
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, 
Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bit- 
terness ! 
Not then would foreign hosts have drained the 

tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed : 

Nor from the Alps would legions, still re- 
newed. 
Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield an alien 

brand, 
And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! 



PASTORINI. 
" Geneva mia ! se con asciutto ciglio." 

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 

My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye. 
Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold ; 

But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 
Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, 

Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might ! 
And in each trace of devastation's way, 

Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering 
sight. 
Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine ! 
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine. 

While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 
And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies 
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 

" Hail ! though in ruins, thou toert ne'er in 
chains I " 



LOPE DE VEGA. 

" Gstese el cortesano." 

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 



The couch of down, the board of costly fare j 
Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 
That waves the sceptic of command, 

And rear full many a palace in the air ; 
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined. 
The glowing sun, the genial wind. 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned ; 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 
Contented indigence than joyless wealth. 

Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathlesi 
crown ! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure 

Luxuriant nature will insure ; 

These the clear fount and fertile field 

Still to the wearied shepherd yield; 

And when repose and visions reign. 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 
swain. 

FRANCISCO ' MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENl. 
" No baxes temeroso, O peregrino ! " 

Pause not with lingering foot, pilgrim ! here ; 

Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain side ; 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear — 

To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode. 

So near the mansions of supreme delight; 
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road — 

'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. 
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 

How many a fountain glitters down the htU ! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 

Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou lin- 
ger still ? 
O, enter there, where, freed from human strife^ 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



BELLA CASA. 

VENICE. 

« Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.'' 

These marble domes, by wealth and geniui 
graced, 
With sculptured forms, bright huei wid Pft« 
rian stone, 



Translations. 



101 



Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 

Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 
Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous 
train 
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign. 
They sought these island precincts — to be 
free. 
Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
Fraud, more than death, abhorred each artless 
breast : 
0, now, since fortune gilds their brightening 

day, 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth op- 
pressed ! 

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOG- 
LIO. 

" L' anima bella, che dal vero Eliso." 

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high. 

Descends like dayspring to my favored sight. 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 

Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! 
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, 

That smile of peace ! she bids my doubts de- 
part, 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while. 

And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 
Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold. 

To soar with her and mingle with the blessed ! 
But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 

Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds 
depressed. 



QUEVEDO. 

ROME BURIED IN HEK OWN RUINS. 
" Buscas en Roma i. Roma, O peregrino." 

A.MID8T these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou 
Rome ^ 
Vain is thj' search — the pomp of Rome is 
fledi 
Ber silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 

Her walls, her shrinss, but relics of the dead. 
That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days, 
Forsaken mourns, where once it towered sub- 
lime; 



Each mouldering medal now far less displays 

The triumphs won by Latium than by Time, 
Tiber alone survives — the passing wave 
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her 
grave. 
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. 
Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is passed. 
That seemed for years eternal framed to last : 
Nought but the wave — a fugitive — remain* 



EL CONDE JTIAN DE TARSIS. 

" Tu, que la dulce vida en tiemas anos." 

Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted 
bowers. 

In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing 
morn. 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, 

For the rude convent garb and couch of thorn ; 
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, 

Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane. 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs 

To shun the midnight perils of the main - 
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pou-, 

While on thy soul the beams of glorj' rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore 

With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, 
O, how shouldst thou the exulting paean raise, 
Now heaven's bright harbor opens on thy gaze . 



TORQUATO TASSO. 
" Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." 

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose 

To the mild sunshine only half displayed. 

That shunned its bashful graces to disclose. 

And in its veil of verdure sought a shade : 
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so 
bright,) 
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere. 
O'er vale and mountain shedding dew ssd 
light. 
Now riper 5'ears have doomed no grace to 

fade; 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride arrayeA 

Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, 
And the bright daystar, in its noontide hour, 
More brilliant shines, in genial radianc* 
warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 

" Caest oinbra clie giummai non vide il sole." 

Ibis green recess, where through the boAvery 
gloom 
Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam 
played, 
Where violet beds in soft luxuriance bloom 

'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade ; 
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain 
steals, 
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it 
flows. 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals 

Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair ! 
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from teardrops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 

" Chi vuol veder quantunque puo natura." 

Tho\ • that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, 

All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Tome, gaze on her, the daystar of the earth, 

Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind: 
And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long. 

First calls the brightest and the best away; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng. 

The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! 
Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental 

grace, 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace. 

Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays. 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze : 

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



" Se lamentar augelli, O verdi fronde." 

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours 
Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive 
bird; 
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 
flowers, 
The soothing mi^mur of the wave is heard ; 
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear : though dwelling far above. 



Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 

Visits the lone retreat of pensive love, 
" Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,* 
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) 

" While from thine eyes the tear unceasing 
flows ? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, 
Died, to be deathless ; and on heavenly light 
Whose eyes but opened, when they seemed 
to close ! '' 



VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO, 

" O Muerte ! que suelea ser." 

Thou, the stern monarch of dismay. 
Whom nature trembles to survey, 
O Death ! to me, the child of grief, 
Thy welcome power would bring relief. 

Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; 
The pangs that bid existence close. 
Ah ! sure are far less keen than those 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 

" O Zeflretto, clie movendo vai." 

Sylph of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions lighl 

Wave gently round the tree I planted here, 
Sacred to her whose soul hath winged its fiiglr.* 

To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! 

To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour 
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail 

To rend its honors from the sylvan bower. 
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, 

Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind. 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, 

But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild 
and fiee ! 



GESNER. 

MOKNING &ONG. 
" Willfcommen, fruhe morgensonn " 

Hail ! morning sun, thus early bright ; 
Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day 



TRANSLATIONS. 



101 



Through the dark woods that fringe the height, 
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 

Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, 

Bright on the water's glittering fall, 
.And life, and joy and health appear, 
Swest Morning ! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 

From beds of fragrance, where they lay. 
And roving wild on dewy wing. 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, 

Now from each mind withdraw their spell ; 
While the young loves delighted meet, 
On Rosa's cheek to dwell. 

Sl^eed, zfphyr ! kiss each opening flower. 

Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower, 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

There o'er her downy pillow fly, 

Wake the sweet maid to life and day ; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh. 
And o'er her bosom play ; 

And whisper, when her eyes unveil. 

That I, since morning's earliest call, 
Have sighed her name to every gale 
"Rv the lone waterfall. 



GERMAN SONG. 

»« Madchen, lernet Amor kennen." 

Listen, fair maid ! my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well — 

His looks the traitor prove. 
Dost thou not see that absent smile. 
That fiery glance replete with guile ? 

O, doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise. 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries. 

Or with complaint would move ; 
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy. 
Changing each hour, he knows not why, 

O, doubt not then — 'tis Lo-ve. 

There's magic in his every wile, 
Hia Ups, well practised to beguile, 
Breathe roses when they move j 



See ! now with sudden rage he burns. 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. 
O, doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

He comes, without the bow and dart, 
That spare not e'en the purest heart j 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile. 
Deceit is lurking in that smile — 

O, trust him not — 'tis Love, 



CHAULIEU. 
• Grotte, d' ou sort ce clair ruisseau.'' 

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring. 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers* 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to my musing hours. 

Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me 

The dayspring of existence rose, 
Soon shall my dust return to thee. 
And 'midst my sires repose. 

Muses ! that watched my childhood's mom, 

'Midst these wild haunts, with guardiau eyft 
Fair trees ! that here beheld me born. 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE VEGA. 

" Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera." 

Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May 
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way 

With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous 
brow ; 
The rose wUl fade when storms assail the year, 
And Time, who changeth not his sM"ift career. 

Constant in this, will change all else below ! 



LORENZO DE MEDICI. 



" Non di verdi giardin omati e coltL" 

We come not, fair one ! to thy hand of snow 
From the soft scenes by Culture's hand ar« 
rayed ; 
Not reared in bowers where gales of iragrancfl 
blow. 
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade 
There once, as Venus wandered, lost in woe, 
To seek Adonis through th' entangled woodi 



104 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurked below 
With print relentless drew celestial blood ! 

Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms 
fraught, 

Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, 
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes ; 

We were not fostered in our shadowy vales 

By guided rivulets or summer gales — 

Our dew and air have been Love's balmy tears 
and sighs ! 



PINDEMONTE. 

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. 

" Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi ? " 

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away ? 

What lures thee from the banquet of the skies ? 
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day 

For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and 
sighs ? 
O thou, Canova ! soaring high above 

Italian art — with Grecian magic vying ! 
We knew thy marble glowed with life and love, 

But who had seen thee image footsteps flying ? 
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing 
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying 

In many a line of undulating grace ; 
While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, 
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending. 

One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause 
to trace. 

[A volume of translations, published in 1818, might have 
leen called, by anticipation, " Lays of many Lands." At the 



time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly deriveH 
from classical sulijects. The "graceful superstitions" of 
Greece, and the sublime patriotism uf Koine, held an influ 
ence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of th« 
works of this period — such as "The Restoration of tilt 
Works of Art to Italy," " Modem Greece," and several of 
the poems which formed the volume entitled " Tales and 
Historic Scenes." 

" Apart from all intercourse," says Delta, " with literary 
society, and acquainted only by name and occasional corre- 
spondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom 
England has to boast, Mrs. Heuians, during the progress of 
her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater 
obstacles than usually staiul in the path of female aiithorshipb 
To her praise be it s|K)ken, therefore, that it was to her own 
merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circum- 
stances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of 
popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. 
From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poema 
which first permanently elevated her auiong the writers ot 
her age, — the ' Restoraticui of the Works of Art to Italy,' 
and ' Modern Greece.' In these the maturity of her intel- 
lect appears ; and she makes us feel, that she lias marked 
out a path for herself through the regions of song. The ver- 
sitication is high toned and musical, in accordance with the 
sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, 
not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration anfe 
research. These fvtTortswere favorably noticed by Lord By- 
ron ; and attracted tlie admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber 
and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her 
on by their approbation : the reputation which, through 
years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, some- 
times with brightened and sometimes witli doubtful hopes, 
locked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length 
unequivocally and iinrehictantly accorded her by the world j 
and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The 
Translations from Camoens, the prize poem of Wallace, as 
also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and 
the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary 
career." — Biographical Sketch, prefixed to Poetical Remains, 
1836. 

In reference to the same period of Mrs. Ilemans's career, 
the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury fafterwards 
Mrs. Fletcher) has the following judicious observations : — 

" At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classi- 
cal, and highly polished ; but it wanted warmth : it partook 
more of the nature of statuary than of (lainting. She fet- 
tered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon 
her memory when she might have relied upon her imagina- 
tion. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her owii 
admission, 'loved to repose under the shadow of migbur 
names.' " — Atlienamm, Feb. iSZl.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LINES 

WKITTBB IS A HKBXIIAOB OH THB SEA SKOKE. 

O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 
Each earthly passion and regret. 
And would thy wearied spirit rise 
To commune with its native skies ; 
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet 
To linger in this calm retreat ; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense. 
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 



Unmixed with aught of meaner tone, 
Here Nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour. 
Is rushing on its wing of power, 
And spirits of the deep awake. 
And surges foam, and billows breat, 
And rocks and ocean caves around 
Reverberate each awful sound — 
That mighty voice, with all its dread control 
To loftiest thought shall wake th/ thrilling 
soul. 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. lOi 


But when no more the sea winds rave, 


Now not a sullying breath can rise ' 


When peace is brooding on the wave, 


To dim thy glory in the skies. 


And from earth, air, and ocean rise 




No sounds but plaintive melodies; 


We rear no marble o'er thy tomb — 


Soothed by their softly-mingling swell, 


No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 


As daylight bids the world farewell. 


Ah, fitter far the vernal bloom 


The rustling wood, the dying breeze. 


Such dwelling to adorn. 


The faint low rippling of the seas. 


Fragrance, and flowers, and dews must be 


A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast. 


The only emblems meet for thee. 


A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 






Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine. 


Is thine a heart the world hath stung. 


Adorned with Nature's brightest wreath. 


Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung ? 


Each glovring season shall combine 


Hast thou some grief that none may know. 


Its incense there to breathe } 


Some lonely, secret, silent woe ? 


And oft, upon the midnight air, 


Or have thy fond affections fled 


Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 


From earth, to slumber with the dead ? ^ 




0, pause a while — the world disown. 


And 0, sometimes in visions blest. 


And dwell with Nature's self alone ! 


Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 


And though no more she bids arise 


And bear, from thine own world of rest. 


Thy soul's departed energies, 


Some balm for human woes ! 


And though thy joy of life is o'er. 


What form more lovely could be given 


Beyond her magic to restore ; 


Than thine to messengers of heaven ? ' 


Ye*, shall her spells o'er every passion steal. 




<bid soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. 






INVOCATION. 




Hushed is the world in night and sleep — 


DIRGE OF A CHILD. 


Earth, sea, and air are still as death , 




Too rude to break a calm so deep 


No bitter tears for thee be shed. 


Were music's faintest breath. 


Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 


Descend, bright visions ! from aerial bowers, 


With flowers alone we strew thy bed. 


Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. 


blest departed one ! 




Whose all of life, a rosy ray. 


In hope or fear, in toil or pain. 


Blushed into dawn and passed away. 


The weary day have mortals passed ; 




Now, dreams of bliss ! be yours to reign, 


Yes ! thoxi art fled, ere guilt had power 


And all your spells around them cast ; 


To stain thy cherub soul and form, 


Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes th« 


Closed is the soft ephemeral flower 


tear. 


That never felt a storm ! 


And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 


The sunbeam's smile, the zcphyr'g breath, 




All that it knew from birth to death. 


0, bear your softest babn to those 




Who fondly, vainly, mourn the deadJ 


Thou wort so like a form of light, 


To them that world of peace disclose 


That Heaven benignly called thee hence. 


Where the bright soul is fled : 


Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 


Where Love, immortal in his native clime, 


O'er thy sweet innocence : 


Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time 


And thou, that brighter home to bless, 




Art passed, with all thy loveliness I 


Or to his loved, his distant land 




On your light wings the exile bear. 


0, hadst thou still on earth remained. 


To feel once more his heart expand 


Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! 


In his own genial mountain air ; 


How soon thy brightness had been stained 




W th passion or with grief I 
14 


1 Vide Annotation from Qvarterlj^ Beviev, t fSl 



ICO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hear the wild echoes Avell-kno^\^l strains repeat, 
Vnd bless each note, as heaven's own music 
sweet. 

But O, with fancy's brightest ray, 

Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
And wait his spirit to its native skies 
Who finds no charm in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night, 

Through folded leaves no mormurs creep, 
Nor stai- nor moonbeam's trembUng light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions ! from your airy bower : 
Dark, silent, solemn is your favorite hour. 



TO TUB HEMORT Or 

GENERAL SIR E— D P— K— M.« 

Bkave spirit ! mourned with fond regret, 

Lost in life's pride, in valor's noon, 
O, who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon ! 

Jfatal, though bright, the fire of mind 

Which marked and closed thy brief career, 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies withered on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom, 

The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 
Might Fate have reared for thee. 

1 Major General Sir Edward Pakenhain, the gallant officer 
to who)je memory tile!^e verses are dedicated, fell at the head 
of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New 
Orleans, 8tli January, 1814. " Six thousand combatants on 
the British side," says Mr. Alison, "were in the field: a 
•lender force to attack double their number, intrenched to 
the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with 
heavy artillery." — Histori/ of Europe, vol. x. p. 743. 

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official 
account of General Keane, communicating the result of the 
action: — " The advancing columns were discernible from 
the enemy's line at more than two hundred yards' distance, 
wh3U a destructive flre was instantly opened, not only from 
all parts of the enemy's line, but from the battery on the 
tpposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, 
during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in 
the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the 
front, to animate his men bv his presence. He had reached 
the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his 
troops with his hat oflT, when he received two balls, one in 
tne knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms 
of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly 
mrputii." — Edinr. An Res'iat. 1815, p. 356. 



Thou shouldst have died, O high-soulsd chief 

In those bright days of glory fled, 
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief 
We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each teardrop then 

Was worthy of a warrior's grave 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave ? 

There, on the battle fields of Spain, 

'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain scene, 
Or on Vitoria's blood-red plain, 
Meet had thy death bed been. 

We mourn not that a hero's life 

Thus in its ardent prime should clos« 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife. 
But died 'midst conquered foes ! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flamfc 

In that last moment cheered thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name. 
That ne'er may be forgot : 

And many a tale of triumph won 

Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear, 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO TnE MEMOKT OV 

SIR H— Y E— LL— S, 

WBO FELL Iir THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

" Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown b 
around them."— Ossiam. 

Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was seoles 
On England's proudest battle fiela ? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full resistless tide ? 

O, mourn him not 
By deeds like his that fieJd was won, 
And Fate could yield to Valor's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry, 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly; 
And envied be his death of fame ! 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name 

That nought shall dim : 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay. 

Weep not for him ! 



jnSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



lOi 



And treatlie no dirge's plaintive moan ; 
A hero claims far loftier tone ! 
O, proudly shall the war song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, 'midst the battle storm - 
The avenging angel — reared her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise, 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays ; 
Since he, the soldier's guiding star, 
The Victor chief, the lord of war, 

Has owned thy fame : 
And O, like his approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name ? 



GUERILLA SONG. 

FODNDED ON THE STOKT RELATED OF THE SPANISH 
1-ATKIOT lilNA. 

0, roEGET not the hour when through forest and 

vale 
We returned with our chief to his dear native 

halls ; 
Through the woody sierra there sighed not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement 

walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, 
Hound the home of the valiant, that rose on our 

sight. 

We entered that home — all was loneliness round. 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound : 
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had passed, like the poison wind's 

breath. 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

O, frrget not that hour — let its image be near. 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our 

rest, 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear. 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each 

breast. 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine. 



THE AWED INDIAN. 

Wabkioks ! my noon of life is past. 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 



I crouch before the viantry blast, 

Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; 
The heroes of my youth are fled. 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred chiefs in days of yore ! 
Ye fill an unremembered grave. 

Your fame, your deeds, are known rc 
more. 
The records of your wars are gone, 
Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth. 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 

Then wiU the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time, 

With him, ye sons of former days I 

Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that hailed your spirits' flame. 
Still kindling in the combat's shock. 

Have seen, since darkness veiled j-our fame^ 
Sons of the desert and the rock ' 

^.nother and another race 

Rise to the battle and the chase 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 

Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
O, let me join their spirits fled — 

O, send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart - 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 

The glory of this arm is flown ; 
Why should the feeble linger here 

When all the pride of life is gone ? 
Warriors ! why still the stroke deny ? 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 

He feared not in his flower of days. 

When strong to stem the torrent's force. 

When through the desert's pathless maze 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 

When war was sunshine to his sight. 

And the wild hurricane delight ! 

Shall, then, the warrior tremble now ? 

Now when his envied strength is o'er — 
Hung on the pine his idle bow. 

His pirogue useless on the shore ? 
When age hath dimmed his failing eye. 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? 



r«S 



MISCELI ANEOUS POEMS. 



Sons of the brave ! delay no more 
The spirits of my kindred call. 

'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
O, bid the aged cedar fall! 

To join the brethren of his prime, 

ITie mighty of departed time. 



FN^NING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

BoPT skies of Italy ! how richly dressed, 

Smile tlicse wild scenes in your purpureal 
glow ! 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 

Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 
Yon torrent, foaming do\vn the granite steep, 

Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 

Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain 
stream. 
Now from yon peak departs Uie vivid ray, 

That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away, 

And all is wrapped in twilight's deep repose : 
While through the pine wood gleams the vesper 

star, 
And roves the AJpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CEHEF IN 
" WAVERLEY." ' 

Son of the mighty and the free ! 

High-minded leader of the brave ! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee 

To fill a nameless grave ? 
O, if amidst the valiant slain 

The warrior's bier had been thy lot. 
E'en though on red CuUoden's plain, 
'\S''c then had mourned thee not. 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 

1 nicse very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edin- 
burgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following 
Interesting heading: — 

" A literary friend of ours received these verses with a 
letter of tiie following tenor : — 

" • J] very in»minit<! young fritnd of mine has jtist sent me 
Ihe enetoted, on reading ffaverley. To you the world gives 
thai eliarmin^ work : and if in any fulur^ edition yon should 
Uke to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do 
honor to 

Your Sincere Admirer.' 

"The individual to whom this obliging letter was ad- 
<re88«d, having uo claim to the honor which is there done 



Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, 

The watchword of Despair ! 
Yet, O, if gallant iipirit's power 

Hath e'er ennobled death like thine. 
Then glory marked thy parting hour. 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 

But cannot chase their silent gloom ; 

Those beamsi that gild thy native walls 

Are sle£!ping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 

Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile : 
Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hills no bugle sound 

Is mingling with the torrent's roar ; 
Unmarked, the wild deer sport around : 

Thou load'st the chase no more ! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still. 

Those halls where pealed the choral strain 
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill, 
And all is hushed again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 

Shall wave its blazoned folds on high ; 
There the tall grass and summer flower 

Unmarked shall spring and die. 
No more thy bard for other ear 

Shall wake the harp once loved by thine ^ 
Hushed be the strain thou canst not hear, 
Last of a mighty line ! 



THE CRUSADERS' WAR SONG. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high — 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die. 

Slain in a cause like ours ? 
The brave, who sleep in soil of thine. 
Die not intombed, but shrined, O Palestine ! 

him, does not posses:? the means of publishing the vers'js in 
the popular novel alluded to. But thai the public may sus- 
tain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may 
be aware of the honir intended him, our correspondent has 
ventured to send the rerses to our Register." 

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the 
" very inirenious young friend of mine " and " your sincere 
admirer," on the one hand, and the disclaimer by "a lit 
erary frimd of ours," on the other, there can be little doub* 
that the Dirge was sent by Mrs. Hemans to Sir Walter, then 
Mr. Scott, an^ by him to the Register — of which he hiro 
self wrote that year the historical department. — FiitefMCk 
hart's Life of Scott, vol iv. i>. 80. 



Souls of the slain in holy war ! 

Look from your sainted rest. 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 

To mingle with the blest ; 
Tell us how short the death pang s power, 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
rh' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, 

The wildest rage of fight, 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might. 
Envied be those for thee that fall, 
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame, 
Or pyramid record their doom, 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, blessed Palestine. 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower ! 
We burn to mingle in the strife, 
Where but to die insures eternal life. 



THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald 
fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His 
death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But 
Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started 
from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, 
cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourn- 
ing ! " The Highlanders received a new impulse from his 
words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all 
before them. — See the Quarterly Review article of " Cullo- 
den Papers."] 

O, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 
Still fearless and first in the combat he fell ; 
But we paused not one teardrop to shed o'er 

the spot. 
We spared not one moment to murmur, " Fare- 
well." 
We heard but the battle word given by the chief, 
♦ To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 



And wildly, Clanronald ! we echoed the vow, 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in 

our hand ; 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee 

now. 
For well has thy death been avenged by thy 

band, 
When they joined in wild chorus the cry cf tk« 

chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! * 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wUd call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the 

brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall. 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave, 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race ! 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set ; 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them j'et ! 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief! " 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day. 
Where fancy's fire, aff'ection's mental beam, 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its o'wn language to pervade the heart : 
Thy power, bright orb ! what bosom hath not felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! 
And, by some spell of undefined control. 
With magnet influence touch the secret sotil ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth ; 
And ere the world, with all- corrupting sway. 
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter tr.d Dutray, 
Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, 
Or speak one thought that interest would cun- 

ceal. 
While yet thou seem' st the cloudless mirror jiven 
But to reflect the purity of heaven, 
O, then how lovely, there unveiled, to trace 
Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace 

When Genius lends thee all his living light. 
Where the full beams of intellect unite ; 



110 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



When love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
'Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play ; 
Or I'ity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews ; 
Still does thy powcp; -whose aU-commanding 

spell 
Car pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 

And O, when thought, in ecstasy sublime. 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time. 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
V^As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality ;) 
Who docs not own, that' through thy lightning 

beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams ? 
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, 
Ihe vestal ray, the spark that cannot die ! 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue, 
When round him, pealing to the sky, 
The shout of victory rung ! 

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 

A smile so bright illumed his face — 
O, never, of the light it shed. 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death whose rapture high 

Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die. 
On the red battle field ! 

And they may feel, who loved him most, 

A pride so holy and so pure : 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 
A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 



THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

[" Hilas ! nous composions son liistnire de tout ce qu'on 
*€ut iniaginer de plus glorieux. . . . Le pass6 et le present 
»ous garanlissoient I'avenir. . Telle etoit I'agr^able his- 
loire que nous faisions ; et pour ae ivcr ces nobles projets. 



il n'y avoit que la durde de sa vie ; dont nous ne croyioM 
pas devoir etre en peine, car qui ettt pu seulcnient penser 
que les annees eusscnt d& manquer i une jeunesse qui aem- 
bloit si vive ? " — Bossuet.] 



Marked ye the mingling of the city's throng; 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation brighti 
Prepare the pageant and the choral song. 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! 
And hark ! what rumor's gathering sound if 

nigh ? 
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep ? 
Away ! be hushed, j'e sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep ! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly passed, 
And England's royal flower is broken by the 

blast ! 



Was it a dream ( so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled. 
Whose early grandeur promised years of famb • 
O, when hath life possessed, or death destroyed 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled ? 
When hath the spoiler left so dark u void ? 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning star hath vanished, and the tomb 
Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er distant 
years to come. 



Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy -way prepare ? 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine. 
Danger and fear seemed past — but thou wert 

there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hoiir of nature's awful throes • 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath. 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thou, dark Spirit ! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven 

is all serene. 



And she is gone ! — the royal and the young. 
In soul commanding, and in heart benign ! 
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung. 
Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well 
Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own w(»iil(J 

dweU 
Wake from that breast one sympathy again • 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Lll 



The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 



O, many a bright existence we have seen 
Quenched in the glow and fulness of its prime ; 
And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropped ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride. 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; 
And w-e have wept when soaring genius died, 
Checked in the glory of his mid career ! 
But here our hopes were centred — all is o'er ; 
All thought in this absorbed — she was — and 
is no more ! 



We watched her childhood from its earliest hour. 
From every word and look blest omens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fixed the patriot's ardent eye — 
One hope still bloomed, one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky. 
She was our dayspring — all was cloudless there ; 
And O, how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of 
distant days ! 



Now hath one moment darkened future years, 
And changed the track of ages yet to be ! 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears, 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
O, while the clear perspective smiled in light. 
Wisdom should then have tempered hope's ex- 
cess ; 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness. 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear. 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 



All smiled around thee : Youth, and Love, and 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze, 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art passed away 
Lik'^ some fair vision, that arose to throw 
O'er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, 
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe ! 
O. who shall dare to woo such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee 

were vain ? 



Yet there is one who loved thee — and whose soul 
With mild affections nature formed to melt ; 
His mind hath bowed beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief — but this shall be unfelt! 
Years have gone by — and given his honored 

head 
A diadem of snow ; his eye is dim ; 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread, 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone ' 
He dwells on earth, while thou in life's fuL 

pride art gone ! 



The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep. 
But not repine — for many a storm hath passed, 
And, pillowed on her own majestic deep. 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plain. 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main. 
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath ! 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, 
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. 



Her voice hath been th' awakener — and her 

name 
The gathering word of nations. In her might, 
And all the awful beauty of her fame. 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, 
Fixing the torch upon her beacon tower — 
That torch whose flame, far streaming o'er the 

flood. 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest houj 
Away, vain dreams of glory ! — in the dust 
Be humbled. Ocean queen ! and own thy sen« 

tence just ! 

I " I saw him last on tliis terrace proud, 
Walking in liealtli and gladness ; 
Begirt with liis court — and In all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 

" The time since he walked in glory thus. 
To the grave till I saw him carried. 
Was an age of the niiglitiest change to ii«, 
But to him a night unvaried. 

" A daughter beloved — a queen — a son — 
And a son's sole child had perished ; 
And sad was each heart, save the only one 
By which they were fondest cherished.* 

— " The Contrast." written under Windsor Terrace, 17tt 
Feb., 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq. 



lift 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hoik ! 'twns the death bell's note ! which, full 

and deep, 
Unmixed with aught of less majestic tone. 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swelled on the stillness of the air alone ! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darkened street, 
(Silent the hlumbcring Thames, the lonely mart; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet. 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, 
A« in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 

been. 



The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell. 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; 
And his last mellowed rays around us dwell, 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er. 
What slow procession moves mth measured 

tread ? — 
Lo ! those who weep, with her who weeps no 

more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead ! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled 

ray 
Looks do^\■n, as earthly hopes are passing thus 

away. 



But other light is in that holy pile. 

Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ; 

There, through the dim arcade and pillared 
aisle. 

The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. 

There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, 

And all around the stamp of woe may bear ; 

But Gricl, to whose full heart those forms are 
vain, 

Grief unexpressed, unsoothcdbythcm — is there. 

No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns. 

Than when the all he loved as dust to dust re- 
turns. 



We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One ! 

We pity — but the liWng, not the dead ; 

A cloud hangs o'er us ' — '• the bright day is 

done," 
And with a father's hopes a nation's fled. 



> " The bright day is done, 

And we are for the dark."— SHAKipSASs. 



And he, the chosen of thy youthlul breast, 
Whose soul with thine had mingled wvery 

thought — 
He, with thine early, fond affections blest. 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye that earth 
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy 

worth ? 



O, there are griefs for nature too intense. 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul ; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'crlabored sense 
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. 
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless 

hour 
Of the sealed bosom and the tearless eye, 
Then the roused m.ind awakes, with tenfold 

power 
To grasp the fulness of its agony ! 
Its deathlike torpor vanished — and its doom. 
To cast its own dark hues o'er hfe and nature's 

bloom. 



And such his lot whom thou hast loved and 

left. 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recalled ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appalled- 
Years may pass on — and, as they roll along. 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend , 
Yet still, the guardian angel of his mind 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's tem- 
ple shrined. 



Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells w'tb 

thee : 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may 

heal. 
But all it was — O, nevermore shall be. 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelmcd by winter 

snow. 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers 

return. 
The faded cheek again with health may glow, 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn ; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young 

bloom. 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond ths 

tomb. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IIS 



But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er, 

And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run , 

While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no 

more, 
Tells that thy crown ( though not on earth) is won. 
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 
Nought but the bloom and sunshine ; and for thee. 
Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone. 
The course of love ran smooth ' and brightly free. 
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given : 
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of 

heaven. 



What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 

Rose in its glory on thine England's eye, 

The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect 

came ? 
Ours is that loss — and thou wert blest to die ! 
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast ; 
But thy spiing morn was all undimmed by tears. 
And thou wert loved and cherished to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder 

tone. 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 



Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look 

down 
Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may 

rise ; 
Where diml5' shines to thee that mortal crown 
Which earth displayed to claim thee from the 

skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of a'lght that once was fondly dear, 

I " The course of true love never did run smooth." 

Sh&K3P£ASE. 

15 



Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn 
in vain. 

And in their hours of loneliness — be near ! 

Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh, 

O, tell those hearts, hath made that blest eter- 
nity ! =* 

2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec., 
1817, and first appeared in Blackwood's JUagazinr, vol iii 
April, 1818. 

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW. 

" The next volume in order consists principally of trins- 
lations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs. lleniansS 
acquamtance with books, to enuiiierate the authors frr/it 
whom she has chosen lier subjects : — they are Canioens, 
Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope do Vega, Francisco 
Manuel, Delia Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan 
de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro 

Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesiier, Chaulieii, Garcilaso de Vega 

names embracing almost every language in which the muse 
lias found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations 
are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any 
of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed 
of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, there- 
fore, to the latter part of the volume, wliich contains much 
that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem whicli we 
are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated — and no 
wonder ; it would be hard to find another which embraces 
so many of the elements of poetic feeling ; so sontiiing a 
mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; such au 
assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playful- 
ness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable bright- 
nesf5, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sor- 
rows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. 
We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand 
by tho grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the 
tliought of death will be mingled with some awe and un- 
certainty ; but the gracious promises of Scripture leave no 
doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants ; and when 
we think what they now are and what they might have 
been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suf- 
fered, what they have now gained and what they might 
have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them ; but we 
must he selfish indeed to wish them again 'constrained' 
to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. TL'o 
' Dirge of a Child,' which follows, embodies these thoughtt 
and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language : — 

" ' No bitter tears for thee be sUed,' " etc.— Vide page !(& - 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.' 



" Groat patriot hero ! ill-requited chief! " 



Ihe morn rose bright on scenes reno^vned, 
Wild Caledonia's classic ground, 
Where the bold sons of other days 
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays, 
And fell — but not till Carron's tide 
With Roman blood was darkly dyed, 
The morn rose bright — and heard the cry 
Sent by exulting hosts on high, 
And saw the white cross banner float 
(While rung each clansman's gathering note) 
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers; 
As, all elate with hope, they stood. 
To buy their freedom with their blood. 

1 Advertis'ment by tif Aiitlior. — " A native of Edinburgh, 
and incinber of the Highland Society of London, with a 
view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable 
national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately of- 
fered prizes for the tliree best poems on the subject of tnrt 
illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The 
following pucm ol)tained tlie first of these prizes. It would 
have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered 
to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the 
giver of the prize ; but his privilege has, with pride as well 
as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author's own 
country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this 
opportunity of honoring and further remunerating the genius 
of the poet ; anil, at the same time, expressing her admi- 
ration of the theme in which slie has triumphed. 

" It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and 
eilightened people, that, in England, the memory of the 
patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an inter- 
est not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the 
country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their 
Bufferings." 

[" .Mrs. Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in 
Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which siie ac 
cordingly did, though witliout being in the slightest degree 
sanguine of success ; so that the news of tlie prize having 
been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. 
The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so over- 
whelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the 
judges appointed to decide on theij nerits. A letter, writ- 
ten at this time, describe.-; tMeui as being reduced to absolute 
despair by the contomplaticm of the task which awaited 
them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would re-. 
)|uire a month at least to wade through. Some of the con- 
tributions were from the .strangest aspirants imaginable ; and 
one of them is mentimicd as being as long as Paradise Lost. 
At length, however, the Herculean labor was accomplished ; 
and the hoiior awarded to Mrs. Ilemans, on this occasion, 
ieemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement 
rtie w as ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scot- 
tish public.'' — Jilemoir, pp. 31, 32. 

Although two thirds (.f the compositions sent to the arbi- 
ters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been 
mere trash yet sei eral afterwards came to light, through the 



The sunset shone — to guide the fl^ "ij* 
And beam a farewell to the dying ! 
The summer moon, on Falkirk's field. 
Streams upon eyes in slumber sealed , 
Deep slumber — not to pass a\Tay 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice : 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's bi" •i^'t 
May chase the still cold sleep of death ? 
Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stained plaid. 
Low are her mountain warriors laid ; 
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould 
Was bleat with heroes' dust of old, 

pre.ss, of verj' considerable excellence. We would especa."* 
mention " Wallace and i:ruce, a Vision," published in Con- 
slubWs Magazine for December, 1819 , and " Wallace," by 
James Hogg, sub.-feciuently included in the fourth volume of 
his Collected Works— Edin. 1833, pp. 143-lGO. 

"The Vision" is thus prefaced :—" Tliough far from 
entering into a hopeless competition with IMrs. Heiiiaus, I 
think the fir-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not 
to be loft entirely to English celebration. Mrs. Hemans haa 
adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry 
Keceive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genu- 
ine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other 
muse but the atiwr palrice, and seeks no other praise but whal 
is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient king 
dom, and no higher name than that of ' a kindly Scot.' " 

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, 
and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgment 
of the merits of his rival. " This poem," (Wallace,) says 
he, " >vaa hurriedly and reluctantly written, incompliance 
with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gain- 
said, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the 
best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded 
to Mrs. Felicia Hemans ; and, as far as the merits ol mine 
wb.A, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in ele- 
gance of thought and composition. Had I liecn constituted 
the judge myself, [ would have given hers the preference by 
many degrees ; and I estimated it the more highly as coming 
from one of the jieoplo that were the hero's foes, oppressors, 
and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much 
to an author for any poem that ever was written." 

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such 
a man as the Author of " The Queen's Wake " — a produc- 
tion entitled to a permanent place in liritish poetry, inde- 
pendently of the extraordinary circumstances under which 
it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, take» 
as a whole, " Kilmeny," "Glenavin," "Earl Walter,' 
" The Abbot Mackinnon," and " The Witch of Fife " 
more especially the first and the last — possess peculia. 
merits, and of a high kind ; and are, I doubt not, destined 
to remain forever embalmed in the memories of all tru« 
lovers of imaginative verse. Porr Hogg was the very re- 
verse of AntEus — he was always in power except when h« 
touched the earth.] 



J 



WALLA-CE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 118 


And, gunPueci by the free and brave. 


And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot 


Yielded the Roman — buv a gras-e ! 


Eternity shall cancel not ? 


Kobly they fell ; yet wilii them died 


Rejoice ! — with sounds of wild lament 


The warrior's hope, the ieadcr's priae. 


O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 


Vainly they fell — that martyr host — 


With dying moan and dirge's wail, 


All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 


Thy ravaged country bids thee hail ! 


Blest are the slain ! they calmly sleep, 


Rejoice ! — while yet exulting cries 


Nor hear their bleeding country weep ! 


From England's conquering host arise, 


The shouts of England's triumph telling 


And strains of choral triumph tell 


Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ■ 


Her Royal Slave hath fought too weH ' 


And those surviving to bequeath 


0, dark the clouds of woe that rest 


Their sons the choice of chains or death, 


Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain crest ! 


May give the slumberer's lowly bier 


Her shield is cleft, her banner torn. 


An envying glance — but not a tear. 


O'er martyred chiefs her daughters mourn 




And not a breeze but wafts the sound 


But thou, the fearless and the free, 


Of wailing through the land around. 


Devoted Knight of EUerslie ! 


Yet deem not thou, till life depart. 


No vassal spirit, formed to bow 


High hope shall leave the patriot's heart • 


When storms are gathering, clouds thy vcj"w ; 


Or courage to the storm inured, 


No shade of fear or weak despair 


Or stern resolve by woes matured. 


Blends with indignant sorrow there ! 


Oppose, to Fate's severest hour, 


The ray which streams on yon red field. 


Less than unconquerable power J 


O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 


No ! though the orbs of heaven expirt. 


Glitters not there alone, to shed 


Thine, Freedom ! is a quenchless fire ; 


Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead ; 


And woe to him whose might would dare 


But where smooth Carron's rippling wave 


The energies of thy despair ! 


Flows near that death bed of the brave, 


No ! — when thy chain, Bruce ! is cast 


Illuming all the midnight scene, 


O'er thy land's chartered mountain blast. 


Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. 


Then in my yielding soul shall die 


But other beams, Patriot ! shine 


The glorious faith of Liberty ! " 


In each commanding glance of thine. 




And other light hath filled thine eye 


" Wild hopes ! o'er dreamer's mind c&at 


With inspiration's majesty. 


rise ! " 


Caught from th' immortal flame divine 


With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, 


Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine ! 


(Yet his dark cheek is flushed with shame, 


Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won, 


And his eye filled with troubled flame;) 


The grandeur Freedom lends her son ; 


" Vain, brief illusions ! doomed to fly 


Thy bearing a resistless power. 


England's red path of victory ! 


The ruling genius of the hour ! 


Is not her sword unmatched in might ? 


And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride. 


Her course a torrent in the fight ? 


Whom Carron's waves from thee divide, 


The terror of her name gone forth 


Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 


Wide o'er the regions of the north? 


To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, 


Far hence, 'midst other heaths and snows, 


Feels his reluctant mind controlled 


Must freedom's footstep now repose. 


By thine of more heroic mould : 


And thou — in lofty dreams elate. 


Though struggling all in vain to war 


Enthusiast ! strive no more with Fate ! 


With that high soul's ascendant star, 


'Tis vain — the land is lost and won : 


He, with a conqueror's scornful eye, 


Sheathed be the sword — its task is done. 


Would mock the name of Liberty. 


Where are the chiefs that stood with thee 




First in the battles of the free r 


Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice ? — 


The firm in heart, in spirit high ? 


• Proud Victor ! in thy fame rejoice ! 


They sought yon fatal field to die. 


Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 


Each step of Edward's conquering host 


The harvest of the battle plain, 


Hath left a grave on Scotland'^ coast." 



116 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BllUCE 



*• Vassal of England, yes i a grave 
Where sleep the faithful and the brave ; 
And who the glory would resign 
Of death like theirs, for life like thine ? 
They slumber — and the stranger's tread 
May spurn thy country's noble dead ; 
Vet, on the land they loved so well, 
Still shall their burning spirit dwell, 
Their de<>ds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 
Their image rise on warrior's dream. 
Their names be inspiration's breath. 
Kindling high hope and scorn of death, 
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, 
The flame that shall avenge their doom ! 
This is no land for chains — away ! 
O'er softer climes let tyrants sway. 
Think'st thou the mountain and the storm 
Their hardy sons for bondage form ? 
Doth our stern wintry blast instil 
Submission to a despot's will ? 
No ! toe were cast in other mould 
Than theirs by lawless power controlled ; 
The nurture of our bitter sky 
Calls forth resisting energy ; 
And the wild fastnesses are ours, 
The rocks with their eternal towers. 
The soul to struggle and to dare 
Is mingled with our northern air. 
And dust beneath our soD. is lying 
C>f those who died for fame undying. 

" Tread'st thou that soil ! and can it be 
No loftier thought is roused in thee ? 
Doth no high feeling proudly start 
From slumber in thine inmost heart ? 
No secret voice thy bosom thrill. 
For thine own Scotland pleading still ? 
O, wake thee yet — indignant, claim 
A nobler fate, a purer fame. 
And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 
And take thine offered crown from heaven. 
Wake ! in that high majestic lot 
May the dark past be all forgot ; 
And Scotland shall forgive the field 
Where with her blood thy shame was sealed. 
E'en I— though on that fatal plain 
lies my heart's brother with the slain ; 
Though, reft of his heroic worth, 
Mv spirit dwells alone on earth ; 
And when all other grief is past. 
Must this be cherished to the last — 
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, 
With faith unspotted as his own ; 
Nor in thy noon of fame recall 
WTiose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 



Still dost thou hear in stern disdam •* 
Are Freedom's warning accents vain i 
No ! royal Bruce ! within thy breast 
"NVakcs each high thought, too long Guppressed 
And thy heart's noblest feelings live, 
Blent in that suppliant word — " rorgive ! " 
" Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done ! 
Wallace ! thy fairest palm is won ; 
And, kindling at my country's shimc, 
My soul hath caught a spark from thine. 
O, deem not, in the proudest hour 
Of triumph and exulting power — 
Deem not the light of peace could find 
A home within my troubled mind. 
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen. 
Dark, silent, secret, there have been, 
Known but to Him whose glance can trace 
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place ! 
— 'Tis past — and on my native shore 
I tread, a rebel son no more. 
Too blest, if yet my lot may be 
In glory's path to follow thee ; 
If tears, by late repentance poured. 
May lave the blood stains from my sword ! " 

Far other tears, O Wallace ! rise 
From the heart's fountain to thine eyes, 
Bright, holy, and unchecked they spring, 
While thy voice falters, " Hail ! my King ! 
Be every wrong, by memory traced, 
In this full tide of joy effaced : 
Hail ! and rejoice ! — thy race shall claim 
A heritage of deathless fame. 
And Scotland shall arise at length 
Majestic in triumphant strength. 
An eagle of the rock, that won 
A way through tempests to the sun. 
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, 
The prophet spirit of thy land : 
By torrent wave, in desert vast, 
Those visions o'er my thought have passed 
Where mountain vapors darkly roll. 
That spirit hath possessed my soul ; 
And shadowy forms have met mine eye, 
The beings of futurity ; 
And a deep voice of years to be 
Hath told that Scotland shall be free ! 
He comes ! exult, thou Sire of Kings ! 
From thee the chief, th' avenger springs ! 
Far o'er the land he comes to save. 
His banners in their glory wave. 
And Albyn's thousand harps awake 
On hUl and heath, by stream and lake, 
To swell the strains that far around 
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound \ 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 



Ill 



And I — but wherefore now recall 

The whispered omens of mj' fall ? 

They come not in mysterious gloom — 

There is no bondage in the tomb ! 

O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns, 

And earth alone for man hath chains ! 

What though I perish ere the hour 

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power ? 

V shed for her. my blood shall stain 

The field or scaffold not in vain : 

Its voice to efforts more sublime 

Shall rouse the spirit of her clime ; 

A.nd in the noontide of her lot, 

My country shall forget me not ! " 



Art thou forgot ? and hath thy worth 
Without its glory passed from earth ? 
Rest with the brave, whose names belong 
Uo the high sanctity of song ! 
"Jhartered our reverence to control, 
^nd traced in sunbeams on the soul. 
Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 
One pulse a generous thought can thrill — 
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed 
Of martyr's death or hero's deed. 
Shall brightly live from age to age, 
Thy country's proudest heritage ! 
'Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, 
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, 
Thy memory speaks in torrent wave. 
Thy step hath hallowed rock and cave, 
A.nd cold the wanderer's heart must be 
That holds no converse there with thee ! 
Yet, Scotland ! to thy champion's shade 
Still are thy grateful rites delayed ; 
From lands of old renown, o'erspread 
With proud memorials of the dead. 
The trophied urn, the breathing bust, 
The pillar guarding noble dust, 
The shrine where art and genius high 
Have labored for eternity — 
The stranger comes : his eye explores 
The wilds of thy majestic shores. 
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone 
liaised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore i 
Withhold that guerdon now no more. 
On some bold height of awful form, 
Sfsra eyry of the cloud and storm, 



Sublimely mingling with the skies, 

Bid the proud Cenotaph arise : 

Not to record the name that thrills 

Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills ; 

Not to assert, Avith needless claim, 

The bright /oreyer of its fame ; 

But, in the ages yet untold, 

When ours shall be the days of old, 

To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 

In him, for thee who lived and died. 



[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time o 
publication : — 

" When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs. Ilemans had 
authorized the judges who awarded to her the prize to send 
her poem to iis, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm 
the propo-al of reading it aloud was received on all sides ; 
and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the 
genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie — Ireland 
her Tighe — England her Hemans." — BlackmuoiPs Mava' 
zi e, vul. V. Sept., 1819. 

" Mrs. Hemans so soon again ! — and with a palm in her 
hand ! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find tho 
high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so un- 
equivocally confirmed. 

" On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and 
Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of 
the other side of the Tweed — a circuuistance, we learn, 
which was known from the references before the prizes were 
determined. Mrs. Heuians's was the first prize, against fifry- 
seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a 
subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an 
English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness 
of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further 
demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, 
not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a can- 
didate any thing like a fair chance with a native — if we 
can suppose any p(]et In the south then dreaming of making 
the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that 
of an enemy; and a rebel against the paramount supremacy 
of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling 
which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more 
that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in 
one great family." — Edmburgh Mo,.tklij Reoiev), vol. ii. 

The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs. Hemans was 
rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following pas 
sage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitlea 
" Common Sense," then published, and curretitly believed 
to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr. Terrot, now 
Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the fe- 
male writers of the age. Miss Baillie is the first mentioned 
and characterized. He then proceeds — 

" Next I'd place 

Felicia Hemans, second in the race ; 

I wonder the lleviews, who make such stir 

Oft about rutjliish, never mention Jier. 

Tliey might have said, 1 think, from mere good breeding — 

Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading." 

" Mrs. Hemans," adds the critical satirist in a note, " is 
a lady (a young lady, I believe) of very considerable merit. 
Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and ele- 
gant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascer- 
taining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves 
well of the republic of letters." 

The worthy bishop has lived to read " The Records of 
Woman ; " and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know thai 
the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among Bntisk 
classics. 



MS 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



TIIE ABENCERRAGE. 

[The events witli which tlie following tale Is interwoven 
lire related in tlie Hisloria de las Gufrras Civiles de Orantida. 
They occurred in the reign of Aho Abdeli, or Abdali, the last 
Moorish king of that i-ity, called hy the Spaniards El Key 
Chico. The conquest of Granada, hy Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facili- 
tated by the Abenccrrases, whoso defection was the result 
of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, 
at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful 
lialls of the Alhanibra is pointed out as the scene where so 
many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; and 
it still retains their name, being called the " Sala de los 
Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish 
ballads relate to the events of this chivalrxjus and romantic 
period.] 

" Le Maare ne se venge pns parce q>ie sn colere dure encore, 
mais parce que la vengeance seul peut ccarter de sa tete le poids 
d'infamie dont il est accable. II se venge, parce qu'a ses yeux 
U n"y a qu'une ame basdc qui puisse pardonner les affronts ; et il 
nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'il la seutoit e'eteindre, il croiroit 
avcc elle avoir perdu uue vcrtu." Sismondi, 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 
Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er ; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain falls 
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsj' no more. 

Hushed are the voices that in years gone by 
Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through 
thy towers ; 

Within thy pillared courts the grass waves high. 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 
Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam 
smiles, 

And many a tint of softened brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone. 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair. 

Some charmed abode of beings all unknown, 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

Fcr there no footstep treads th' enchanted 
ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose perN'ades, 
Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, 
Through the light domes and graceful colon- 
nades. 

Par other tones have swelled those courts along 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace — 



The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats of a vanished race. 

And yet a while, at Fancy's potent call. 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold ; 

Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall 
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of 
old. 

The sun declines : upon Nevada's height 

There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of tliat parting glow. 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour ; 
Hushed are the winds, and nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness ; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glorj', only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven — 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy 

sound. 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around ! 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng. 
Not the light zambra' nor the choral song: 
The combat rages — 'tis the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and cimeter. 
Within the Hall of Lions,^ where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands 
There the strife centres — swords around him 

wave. 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave , 
While echoing domes return the battle cry, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still, 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 
But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain 



1 Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

4 The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alham- 
bra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions wliici 
supported an alabaster basin in the centre. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



119 



tn his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs ' there youjig Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Revenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 

Yes ! trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath 
By helm and corselet shattered in his path, 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain. 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest 

cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions 

glare, 
Ajid where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes ! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host. 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 

They perished — not as heroes should have 
died, 
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride, 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, 
And proudly smiling as the death pang came : 
O, had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flowed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate : a tyrant's stern com- 
mand 
Doomed them to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race. 
Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace. 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die. 
Betrayed, unarmed, they fell — the fountain 

wave 
Flowed crimson with the lifeblood of the brave, 
Till fai the iearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate. 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to tlie scene where vengeance might be 
won. 

For this young llamct mingles in the strife. 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life. 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 



1 Aben-Zurrahs : the name thus written is taken from the 
translation of an Arabic MS. given in the tliird volume of 
Bourguanne's Travels through Spain. 



But lo ! descending o'er the darkened hall, 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall. 
Nor yet the strife hath coa,«}d — though scare 

the}' know. 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from ths 

foe ; 
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah ? — 'midst his yielding 

train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. 
He lies not numbered with the valiant dead. 
His champions round him have not vainly b.lef< . 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each eff'ort fail, 
In wild despair he fled — a trusted few, 
Kindred in crime, are stUl in danger true ; 
And o'er the scene of many a martial deed. 
The Vega's ^ green expanse, his flying footstep- 

lead. 
He passed th' Alhambra's calm and lovely 

bowers, 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded 

flowers 
In dew and starlight — there, from grot and cave, 
Gushed in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ! in thy bosom roig. 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep 

again. 
O, vainly bright is nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom. 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb j 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale rovea 
Fraught with rich odor, stolen from orangn 

groves ; 
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook thai 

rise, 
Wild notes of nature's vesper melodies ; 
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head, 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustra 

spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band, 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause deman(* 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fixed a while remains 

2 The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene ol 
frequent actions betvyeen the Moors and Chiistians. 



220 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



In storn, doep silemc ; o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning clioek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
Hut waft in fitful murmurs, from afur. 
Sounds indistinctly fearful — as of war. 
Wliat meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky ? 
Awful it rises, like some Genie form. 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, 
MaKuiftcently dread — above, below, 
Spreads the wild splendor of its deepening glow.* 
Lo ! from the iUhambva's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ! 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre. 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height. 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

O Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half re- 
vealed 
Through cypress groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bejit — yet oft he turns. 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past ; 
And spiry vapors, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reached that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose a while ; 
Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on 

high, 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh : 
He hails tlie scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except tiie heai-t he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state 
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's 

blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed.' 

1 An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the 
Siinoiiiii. — See Bruck's '/'ruucls. 

2 OCtlie Kainsiii,a Mi.t south wind, common in Egypt, wo 
have the f.illowin;; account in Vulney's Travels: " Tliese 
wrnils are known in Ecypt liy the general name of the winds 
of Mfiy clays, ticcauso ihoy prevail more frequently in the fifty 
days preceding' and fi.llowing the equinox. They are men- 
tioned i)y travellers under the name of the poisonous winds 
or hilt winds of the desert : thoir heat is so excessive, that it 
is ditiicult to form any idea of its violence without having 
experienced it. When thoy hcsrin to blow, the ,=ky, at other 
•inics so clear in this climate, hecomes dark and heavy ; the 
Biin loses his Bjdendnr, and appears of a violet color ; the 



Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor s+cp, nor breatl 
Disturbs that scene of beautv and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs reiicho not a sound, 
Save the wild gush of waters — murmuring rounu 
In ceaseless melodies of plainti^ e tone, 
Through chambers ])eoi)led by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red. 
Breastplate and shjpld and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, ycc softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, 
And smile in placid beauty o'er the dead : 
O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace 
E'en death itself is powerless t> efface ; 
O'er those who flushed with ard M.t youth awoke. 
When glowing morn in bloi/ji and radiance 

broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the durk and frozen sleep 
Which hears not Glory call, nt r Anguish AA^eep 
In the low, silent house, tho narrow spot, 
Home of forgctfubiess — and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more ; 
Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day — O, not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career: 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair. 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not 

share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er flelds of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below. 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of Avoe; 
And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway 

bloom. 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light ; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gathered to the brave of other years : 



air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a 
subtile dust, which penetrates every where : respiraticm h&. 
comes short and difficiill, the skin parched and ilr>', the lnng« 
are conirai;ted and painful, and the body consumed with in- 
ternal heat. In vain is coolness souglit for ; marble, iron, 
water, tliough the sun no longer appears, are hot : the street* 
are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where 
The natives of towns and villages shut themselves np in 
their houses, and those of tlio desert in tents, or holes dug 
in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, 
which getierally lasts three days. Woe to the travellei 
whom it surprises remote from shelter- he nnist suffer a| 
its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal." 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



121 



And Ilamct, as beneath the cypress shade 
His martyred brother and his sire are laid, 
Feels every Jeep resolve and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance e'en to passion wrought ; 
Yet is the hour afar — and h-e must brood 
O'er those dark dreams a while in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hushed — another day 
In still solemnity hath passed away, 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath. 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane. 
His ravaged cit)- traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along, 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng. 
No voice is heard ; but in each altered eye. 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
A.nd in each look of those Avhose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead. 
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone — 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
3f tJiought that ill the indignant heart can veil. 
And passion like the hushed volcano's power. 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion from Granada's walls. 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye : 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is liushcd, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the suns of glory sleep ! 
Furled are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the 

wall, 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er — 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom ho hath wronged too deeply to forgive, 
That race of Ln(?age high, of worth approved, 
The chivalrous, tlie princely, the beloved — 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and 

shield : 
Condemned to bid the cherished scenes fare- 
well 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 
And far oer fo.-eign plains as exiles roam, 
rheir land the desert, and the grave their home. 
16 



Yet there is one shall see that race depart 
Iri deep though silent agony of heart : 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, 
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown. 
And veil her heart, and teach her check to weal 
That smile in which the spirit hath no share — 
Like the bright beams that shed tlieu* fruitles* 

glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow 

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern reason would efface : 
Hamet ! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race ! 

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love — 
Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, 
And the spring morn of early genius blight : 
Not such her grief — though now she wakes tC 

weep. 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey dews of 

sleep.' 

A step treads lightly through the citron shade, 
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betrayed — 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known 

spot. 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot ? 
'Tis he — but changed that eye, whose glance 

of fire 
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardor fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought : 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled. 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veiled 

in shade, 
And now in characters of fire portrayed. 
Changed e'en his voice — as thus its moumfu] 

tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

" Zayda ■ my doom is fixed — another day 
And the wronged exile shfiU be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must bo. 
His home of youth, and, more than all — &onj 
thee. 



1 " Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber." 

Shaksfeabb 



O, what a cloud huth gathered o'er my lot 
Since last \vc met on this fair triinquil spot ! 
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, 
An-d not a rose hath faded from thy bower ; 
But I — m; hoi)cs the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And chang'jtl my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Fariiwell, hii^h thoughts ! inspiring hopes of 

j)rai-<e ! 
Heroic visions of my early days ! 
In me the j^lories of my race must end — 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'en in life's mom my dreams of pride are o'er, 
Youth's buoynnt spirit wakes for me no more, 
And one wild feeling; in my altered breast 
Broods darkly o"er the ruins of the rest. 
Yet fear not thou — to thee, in good or ill, 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still ! 
But when my ste',-s are distant, and my name 
Thou hcar'st no longer in the song of fame ; 
When time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace, 
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, — 
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth 
And all the fervor of affection's youth ? 
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In lonely beauty o'er thy Avandcrer's way." 

" Ask not if such my love ! 0, trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resigned ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The juirc and Infty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget. 
Rise with elasric power o'er each regret ! 
Fostered in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learned to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, 
Nursed, by soft sun^-hinc and the balmy shower; 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchange;!, the anger of the skies ! 
Too well I feel, with griefs prophetic heart. 
That ne'er to meet in happier days we part. 
We jjart ! and e'en this agonizing hour, 
When love first feels his OAvn o'erwhelnung 

1)0 wer, 
Shall soon to memory's fixed and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh ! 
Yes ! wher this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed, 
When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost like r.apture to have wept with thee ! 

" But thou, my Ilamet ! thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my bliffhted lot can know. 
O, be thou still the high souled and the brave, 



To whom my first and tonuest t'Ows I gave ; 
In thy proud fame's untarnisned beauty still 
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. 
So shall it soothe me, 'midst my heart's despair 
To hold undimmed one glorious image there ! ' 

•' Zayda, mj- best beloved ! my words too wt-U 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shown, 
And all its drcpms and all its passions known 
Thou shalt not be f^.eceiveil — for pure as heaven 
Is thy younjj love, in faith and fervor given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy 

thought 
Explore the rum by thy kindred wrought. 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crushed by the earthquake, strew its ravaged 

plains ; 
And such that heart where desolation's hand 
Hath blignted all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne, 
Sits 'midst the wreck in silence and alone ; 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine. 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, 
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul , 
They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave. 
Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave, 
Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse 
In that stern cause are banished from my course. 
Zayda ! thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest 
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 
And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot. 
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot 

" But the night wanes — the hours too swift- 
ly fly, 

The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh ; 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain, 
O, trust thy Ilamct, we shall meet again ! 
Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last fare- 
well ! " 

Is the voice hushed, Avhose loved expressive 
tone 
Thrilled to her heart — and doth she weep alone ) 
Alone she weeps : that hour of parting o"er. 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more ? 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair. 
Showering the dewy rose leaves o'er hei iiair ; 




But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight — 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the daystar burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious 

shade. 
In the rich foliage of the South arrayed, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day. 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 
Gn high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, 
To canopy the dead ; nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air. 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive 

stream — 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combat's o'er, 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise. 
'Mid founts, and shades, and fl.owers of bright- 
est bloom — 
As. in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 

There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead ; 
Where two fair pillars rise, embowered and 

lone. 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown. 
Young Ilamet kneels — while thus his vows are 

poured. 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword : 
— " Spirit of him who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined. 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear tLou my voice ! for thine is with me still, 
1> every dream its tones my bosom thrill. 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, 
iStill murmuring " vengeance ! " — nor in vain 

the call, 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, 
Within my heart there lives one only aim ; 
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atonej 
Honccntring every thought, it reigns alone. 



I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an off'ering meet for thee 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come. 
And thou shalt triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art passed away, 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line ; 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after days. 
Yet, by the wreaths thou mightst have nobly 

won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun ; 
By glory lost, I swear ! by hope betrayed, 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid : 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, 
And to avenge thy death devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain I 
Hear, and be with me on the battle plain ! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, 
Bise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died ' " 



"01 ben prowide il Cielo 

Cli' Uom per dclitti mai licto uou sia." 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain. 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vio 
In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye, 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought j 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient 

name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore. 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead r 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there 
Whose names are glorious in romar.tie lays 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days 
By goatherd lone and rude scrrano sung 
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among. 
How oft those rocks have echoed to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Boncesvalles' vale • 



124 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Of him, renowned in old heroic lore, 

First of the brnvc, the gallant Campcador ; 

Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died 

When Kio Verde rolled a crimson tide ; 

Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might 

On the Green Vega won in single fight.' 

Kound fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that Green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corselet tremulous they glanced, 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove. 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above ; 
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armor bright 
With gold, retlccting every tint of Kght, 
And many a floating plume and blazoned shield 
Diffused romantic si^lendor o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life- 
blood start 
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart ; 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And, O, that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death ; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour ; 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain ; 
And, 'midsit the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broidered fold, 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There, imaged on the croes, his form appears 
Who di-ank for man the bitter cup of tears ^ — 
His form, whose word recalled the spirit fled, 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon lair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Sjjain hatli sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardor which, in days of yore, 
To 8yrL;m plains the bold crusaders bore; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal. 
They come, the gallant children of Castile ; 

1 G.ircilaso de U Vega derived his surname from a single 
comhat (in « liicli he was tlic victdr) with a iMoor, on the 
Vega of Granada. 

2 " El Key U. Fernando bolvio i la Vega, y puso su Real 
k la vi^ta de Hiicrar, a veyiite y scys dias del nies de Ahril, 
adonde fue f.rtificado de todo lo nccessario ; poniendo el 
Christiano toda su pente en epquadron, con todas sus van- 
ieras ■cndidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por 
iivisa un Christo crucificado." — Historia de laa Querras 
Civila de Oranada. 



The proud, the calmly dignified : and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star.* 

I 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering 
scene, 
Stern grandeur stamped upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,* 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes, 
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance ? Dis- 
close ! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
O son of Afric ! 'midst the sons of Spain ? 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief ! by hope of vengeance fired ? 
How art thou changed ! still first in every fight, 
Hamet the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight ! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardor in thy look and tone. 
But not the soul's expression once thine own, 
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 

sway ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtained 

breast, 
Yv'hose joys and griefs alike are unexpressed. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain ; 
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. 
But all is peaceful now : the west is bright 
With the rich splendor of departing light; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky. 
Glows like a purple evening cloud on high. 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Velota's head ; * 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed arc the toils and tumults of the day 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away. 

8 Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening 
or the west ; in a word, the Hesperiii of the Greeks. — See 
Castri's Bibl ot. ^ rabico-Hitpanu., and Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall, l^c. 

* " Los Ahencerragcs salieron con su arostumhr.ada librea 
azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos tc.vidos de phita, laa 
plunias de la niisina color; en sus adargas, su acostunibradj 
divisa, salvages que de>qui.\alavan leones,y otros un munda 
que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston." — Ouerras Civile* 
de Granada, 

6 The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those c» Jed 
Mulhacen and Picaclio de Veleta 




In silent musings wrapped : the slaughtered 

brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
Tlie wounded sought a shelter — and expired.' 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days. 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
rill, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose and solitude serene. 
There, 'ncath an olive's ancient shade reclined, 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind. 
The harassed warrior, yielding to the power. 
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, 
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm ; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are a while forgot ; 
And Hope, scarce owned, yet stealing o'er his 

breast. 
Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be 

blest ! " 

Such his vague musings — but a plaintive 

sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low, half-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns : Who shares with him that lonely 

shade ? 
— A 3'outhful warrior on his death bed laid. 
All rent and stained his broidered Moorish vest. 
The corselet shattered on hi? ^<ieeding breast ; 
In his cold hand the brokei. talehion strained, 
With life's last force convulsively retained ; 
His plumage soiled with dust, with crimson dyed. 
And the red lance in fragments by his side : 
He lies forsaken — pillowed on his shield. 
His helmet raised, his lineaments revealed. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanished now 
The light once throned on that commanding 

brow ; 
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast. 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, 
Though changed thus fearfuUy, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Bome bitter thought of long-departed days. 

1 It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that 
Ihe dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were 
kieclianlcally, to tlie shelter which may be afforded by any 
•usii or thicket on the field. 



" O, is it thus," he ciies, " we meet at last , 
Friend of my soul m years forever past ! ■ 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, - 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath, 
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death ? 
Yet let me beaf thee hence — while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy 

veins. 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive ; 
Hope is not lost — and Osmyn yet may live ! 
And blest were he whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance a while bewildered strays } 
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed witto 

pain ; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his ej-e. 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die , 
And the mind's grandeur, in its parting hour, 
Looks from that brow with more than wonteu 
power. 

" Awaj' ! " he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand 
" Apostate, hence ! my soul shall soon be free 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar : 
Be thine existence with a blighted name. 
Mine the bright death whic)- seals a warrior's 
fame ! " 

The glow hath vanished from his cheek — his 

eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting ervcrg)'- ; 
Frozen and fixed it seems — his brow is cht- 
One struggle more — that noble heart is i tilL. 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes, 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, 
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenomed dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart ? 
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep a* 

more, 
Till life's delirious dream itself be o'er ; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patri( t brave. 



126 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



O, what a change that little hour hath WTOught 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Iliunct struggles with indignant pride ; 
While his soul rises, gathering all its force, 
To va.cc*. the fearful contiict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hatn been 
Uis own, unchanged, through many a stormy 

scene ; 
Zayda ! to thee his heart for refuge flics ; 
Thou still art faithful to afl'cction's ties. 
Yes ! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn. 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem ; 
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitioxis hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower. 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the 

world. 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furled. 
That hour is come — and, o'er the arms ho 

bears, 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears : 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure 

he passed, 
And hailed tlie lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove. 
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove : 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, 
As formed alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts ! — not such as hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute with dark unbraided hair ; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat, 
Till his known accents every sense restore — 
" My own loved Zayda ! do we meet once more ! " 
She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow : 
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe — 
Hence, Aben-Zurrah ! death surrounds thee 

here I " 
" Zayda ! what means that glance, unlike thine 

own ? 
What mean those woros, and that unwonted 

tore? 



I will not deem thee changed — but in thy fac^ 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 
It was not thus in other days we met : 
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forgot 
O, speak once'more — these rising doubts dispel • 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well ! 

" Not thus we met in other days — O, no ! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe! 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings swaj'. 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thou, too, changed ! thine earthly voyt 
forgot ! 
This, this alone was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorned, of every tie bereft. 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left . 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou ! the good angel of each brighter dream, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possessed 
To wake one soft aff'ection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath nought in store 
Of joy or sorrow e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu ! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true ? " 

" Hamet ! O, wrong me not ! I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trnce them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, a.d in the wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker worm ! 
But words were idle — read my suff"crings there, 
Where grief is stamped on all that once was fair. 

" O, wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, 
All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seeme(J 
My love had been devotion ! — till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
Th' apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stained the trophies of a glorious race 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful n 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonor's cloud 
O'er that j'oung name had gathered as a bhroud, 
I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, cherished to the last. 
When every meaner woe had long been past. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



127 



Yes ! let afl jction weep — no common tear 
She sheds when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let nature mourn the dead — a grief like this, 
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss ! " 

" High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, 
Hath ".irged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
\Iv soul, no dream of power ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred 

knows, 
Aod in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda ! wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
O, hear me yet ! — if Hamct e'er was dear. 
By our first vows, our young affection, hear \ 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall. 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ; 
Then Avho can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe ? 
Fly, fly ^^■ith me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly, and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and passed ! " 

♦' Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is 
come. 
Hastened bj'' thee, to seal thj'' country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety ? — Woman, too, can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismayed, to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail. 
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Called into life my spirit's latent power ; 
But I have energies that idly slept. 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept ; 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled. 
My soul is firm — for what remains to dread ? 
Who shaU have power to suffer and to bear 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair r 

•' Hamet ! farewell — retrace thy path again. 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Ifes ! on that soil hath Glorj-'s footstep been, 
Names xmforgotten consecrate the scene ! 



Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee therf 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air ? 
Unheard, in vain they call — their fallen son 
Hath stained the name those mighty spirits wori^, 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeathed his own through ages yet to be ! " 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling ey^ 
W.1S lighted up with inborn majesty. 
While her fair form and youthful features caugikt 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous.' Awe-struck and amazed, 
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, 
As on some lofty vision — for she seemed 
One all inspired — each look with glory beamed, 
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of 

woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
O, ne'er had Hamet deemed there dwelt ;«»- 

shrined 
In form so fragile that unconquered mind ; 
And fixed, as by some high enchantment, thczi» 
He stood — tiU wonder yielded to despair. 

•' The cLream is vanished — daughter of my 

foes ! 
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thj' words have pierced his soul ; yet decni 

thou not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
O, formed for happier love, heroic maid ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismayed, 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were 

vain 
From him who ne'er may view that form again — 
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss 

must be, 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee ! " 

And is the warrior gone ? — doth Zayda heax 
His parting footstep, and without a tear ? 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid! — yet who can 

teU 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell ? 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soui, 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in misery's eloquence rehef ; 
But who shaU pierce those depths of silent woa 
Whence breathes no language, whence no teaif 

may flow ? 
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved ? 

1 " Severe in youthful beauty." — Mu yam 



i28 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its wt-akness, pities all its throes ; 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholdin<j anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city ! thou that 'midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains, 
In Eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Bf.neath thy ciuiopy of deep-blue skies; 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their 

wave,' 
Thy citron groves and myrtle gardens lave : 
Mourn, for thy doom is lixed — the days of fear, 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves 
Of kiiifjs and chiefs — their children shall be 

slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell. 
But there a race that reared them not shall 

dwell ; 
For 'midst thy councils discord still presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides — 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne. 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high. 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall. 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call." 
Whose are those tones, with power electric 

fraught 
To reach the source of pure exalted thought ? 

See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a pro^jhet, stand ! 

1 Granadn stands upon two bills, separated by the Darra 
The Xenil runs under tlie walls. The Darro is said to carry 
witii its stre.'dus small particles of gold, and the Xenil of 
silver. Wlicii ("liarles V. came to Granada with the Em- 
press Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made 
of gold, which had lieen collected from the Darro. — See 
Bovfcoanne's and other Travels. 

* " At thirt period, while the inhabitants of Granada were 
gunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and im- 
passioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds 
of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and 
awakened the inhahitants from their letharpy. Twenty 
tbousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were pre- 
pared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack 
tlie besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects 
than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and 
made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that 
the Moors should be allowed the free exerci?eof their religion 
and laws; should he permitted, if they thought proper, to 
depart unmolested with their effects to Africa ; and that he 
himself, if he remained in Spain, should regain an extensive 
•state, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent 
hi money if he preferred retiring to Batbary."— See Jacob'i 
Vraveli in Spain. 



His mien is all impassioned, and his eye 
Filled with a light whose fountain is on 

high ; 
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, 
And inspiration beams upon his brow ; 
While, thronging round him, breathless thou- 
sands gaze. 
As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed, 
The helmets glittering and the line arrayed.'' 
Heard yc the march of steel-clad hosts ? " he 

cries ; 
" Children of conquerors ! in your strength 

arise ! 
O high-born tribes ! O names unstained by 

fear! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear ! "• 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.* 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come, 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore, 
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western 

shore r * 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain,' 

3 Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the 
Moors of Granada, all of high distinction. 

* The (inquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by th« 
civil dissensiona which at this period prevailed in the city 
Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, 
were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards; others 
had embraced the cause of Mulcy el Zagal, the uncle and 
competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,} 
and all was jealousy and animosity. 

5 Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moor." into 
Spain. " The Saracens landed at the pillar or point oi Eu- 
rope. The corrupt and familiar appellaticm of Gibraltar 
(Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik ; and the 
intrenchments of his camp were the firsi outline of those 
fortifications which, in the lijinds of our countrj'men, have 
resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The ad- 
jacent governors informed the court of 'I'oledo of tlie descent 
and progress of the Arabs ; and the defeat of his lieutenant 
Edeco, who had been commaiide'l t(. seize and bind the pre- 
sumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the mag- 
nitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and 
counts, the bishops and nobles of the G(;thi(' nionaichy, 
assembled at the head of their followers; and the titfe of 
king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic his- 
torian, may be excused liy the close affinity of language, 
religion, and manners, between the nations of Spain." — 
Gibbon's Decline and Full, (fee, vol. ix. pp. 472, 473. 

6 " In the neighborhood of Cadiz, the tow7i of Xeres has 
been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate 
of the kingdom ; the stream of the Guadalcte, whiili falls 
into the bay, divided the two caui|)s, and marked the ad- 
vancing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. 
On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and 
decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valor of the Saracen?, 
tliey fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of 



THE ABENCERRAGE 



129 



And Afric s tec'cir swelled tlirough yielding 

Spain I ^ 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed, 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed ? 
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth ? 
To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 
Hath bathed each plain and mingled with each 

flood ; 
Where long their dust hath blended with the 

soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ? 

" ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain ! ye saw their 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight — 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace f 
With each memorial of the past around, 
Each mighty monument of daj-s renowned ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold, 
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould ! 
And the last lifedrop circling through my 

veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

" And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed, 
One mighty effort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be 
In life the fettered, or in death the free ! " 

Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats 
high. 
And firdor flashes from each kindling eye ; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought ; 
And all is hushed around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
bodies. ' My bretliren,' said Tarik to his suiviving com- 
panions, ' tlie enemy is before you, the sea is behind ; 
whither would ye fiy ? Follow your general ; I am resolved 
either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of 
the Komans.' Besides the resource of despair, he confided 
in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of 
Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The 
two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the 
most important post : their well-timed defection broke the 
ranks of the Christians ; each warrior was prompted by fear 
or suspicion to consult his personal safety ; and the remains 
of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight 
and pursuit of the three following days." — Gibbon's De- 
cline and Fall, &c., vol. ix. pp. 473, 474. 

1 The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in 
katie. 

17 



But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetu- 
ous cry 
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around, 
And fair Alhambra's inn.ost halls resound. 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! l.;ad us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or libei ty in life ! " 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain displayed ! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save — 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame, 
Your king hath yielded ! Valor's dream is o'er ; 
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no 

more ; ^ 

And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage — the stranger's chains 



"Fcimossi al fin il cor che bako taiito." 

HiPPOLIIO I'lNDEMONTK- 

Heroes of elder days ! untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field ; 
Ye that around the oaken cross of yore ■* 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst j'-our dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice ! — for Spain, arising in her strength. 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, 
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, 
And bathe their fetters with their tears irt'vain 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour,'^ 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by. 
Conqueror of kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high ; 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile .' 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's band? 
Rushed from their palmy groves and Lurning 
lands, 

2 The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement cl 
popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli's 
capitulation. " Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y 
temiendo no ser ya el Dueiio de un pueblo amotin^do, se 
apresuro &. concluir una capitulation, la nienos dura qu« 
podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y otrecio en- 
tregor 4 Granada el dia seis de Enero."— Pascoi- en Gra- 
nada, vol. i. p. Si. 3. 

3 The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. 

* See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which that war- 
rior is frequentlv styled " he who was bom in happy houB-*" 



E'en ill the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! ' 
Then at doep midnight rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, 
A.S through her echoing streets, in dread array, 
Be.ngs once mortal held their viewless way — 
Voices from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marcliing hosts, the armies of the dead. 
Thou and thy buried chieftains : from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight. 
Those days are past — the crescent on thy 

shore, 
O realm of eveiKng ! sets, to rise no more.* 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ?^ 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice ? 
" Castile and Aragon ! rejoice, rejoice ! " 
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, 
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, 

and lance. 
Through her long streets in knightly garb ad- 
vance. 

0, ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque or solemn festival of yore. 



I " Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from 
Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, 
the niightie.-t power of the misbelievers that had ever been 
brought against S()ain, since the destruction of the kings of 
the Gciths, the Cid Canijieadcir remembered his country in 
that great danger ; fur the night before the battle was fought 
at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty 
Bound was heard in the wliolc city of Leon, as if it were the 
tramp of a great army passing through ; and it passed on to 
tlie royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there was a great 
knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who 
was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that tiie cap- 
tains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, 
and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call 
up King Don Fernaii<lo the Great, who lay buried in that 
church, that lie might go with them to tJeliver Spain. And 
on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was 
(ought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, 
wliich was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won 
over the Moors." — Souihey's Chronicle of the Cid. 

• The name of Andalusia, the region of evening, or if the 
tccM, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so 
tailed, but to the whole peninsula. 

3 " En cste dia, para sicmpre memorable, los estandartes 
ae la Cruz, de St. Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tre- 
moliran snbre la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela ; y un 
exercito prostcmado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y re- 
eonocimicnto, asistio al mas glurioso de los espectaculos." — 
Paseos er Qrinadj, vol. i. p. 299. 



The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarched by cloudless and cerulean skies ; 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towei»| 
Fountains ai^id palaces, and cypress bowers : 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along. 
With broidered scarf and gem-best udded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields, gold embossed, and pennons fl; atingfar, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war. 
All brightened by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth dif- 
fuse — 
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there, too, foremost 'midst the conquering 

brave. 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs ! wave 
There Hamet moves ; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court ; 
Calm, stern, collected — yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfessed .-' 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around ? 
The choral voices, to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise ? 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they 

bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend 
Keared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell n» 

more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast : 

♦ Swinburne, after descnbing the noble jialace built by 
Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhanibra, thus proceeds ; 
"Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly 
buildings as can well he seen, all huddled together, seemingly 
without the least intention of forming unc habitation out of 
them. The walls are entirely unornamentcd, all gravel and 
pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a veiy coarse hand 
yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indi»- 
putahly the most curious place within that exists in Spain, 
perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see e.xcel- 
lent modern as well as ancient arcliilecture, both oiitire and 
in ruins ; but nothing to be met with any where else can 
convey an idea of this edifice, ex'^ept you t:\ke it from '.nr 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



131 



rhey enter — to their wondering sight is given 

A genii palace — an Arabian heaven ! ' 

A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 

Its forms and color seem alike of air. 

Here, by sweet orange boughs half shaded o'er, 

The deep clear bath i-eveals its marble floor, 

Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing 

hues 
The calm transparence of its wave suifuse. 
There round the court, where Moorish arches 

bend, 
Aerial columns, richly decked, ascend ; 
Unlike the models of each classic race. 
Of Doiic grandeur or Corinthian grace. 
But answering well each vision that portrays 
Arabian splendor to the poet's gaze : 
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 
Of rainbow tints, above, around, below ; 
Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins 
Of precious marble, and the vivid stains 
Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade. 
In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed. 
On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams. 
The royal conquerors pass — while still their 

sight 
On some new v.'onder dwells with fresh delight. 
Here the eye roves through slender colonnades. 
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades ; 
Dark olive woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray. 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play. 
Through pillared halls, where, exquisitely 

wrought, 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught. 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wild, romantic. Oriental mien : 



decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii." — Swin- 
BUliNE'3 Travels through Spain. 

1 " Passing round tlie corner of the emperor's palace, you 
aie admitted at a plain, unornanieiited door in a corner. On 
ray first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement, as I 
stepped over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden trans- 
ported into a species of fairyland. The first place you come 
to i: the court called the Ccmmuna, or del Mesucar, that is, 
the common baths : an oblung square, with a deep basin of 
clear water in the middle ; two flights of marble steps lead- 
ing down to the bottom ; on each side a parterre of flowers, 
and a row of orange trees. Round tlie court runs a peri- 
style paved with marble ; the arches bear upon very slight 
pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular 
orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrus- 
lated with fretwork in stucco, so mii.ute and intricate that 
the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to fol- 
ow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan." 
Swikbiienf's Travels in Spain, 



While many a verse, from Eastern bards of old, 
Borders the walls in characters of gold.' 
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, 
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silenc* 

br<pod. 
And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs. 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs ; 
Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,* 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air ; 
While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Aragon ! " ■* 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 

maze. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; * 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre 

gleams. 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange gardens plays on fount and rill. 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 

2 The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with 
inscriptions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode 
of magnificence," says Bourgoanne, "the observer is every 
moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of 
architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may 
be called a collection of fugitive pieces ; and whatever dura- 
tion these may have, time, with which every thing passes 
away, has too much contributed to confirm to them tha' 
title." — See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 

3 Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

4 " Y dnsi entrarcn en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, 
y encima de la tnrre de Comares tan famosa se levanto la 
senal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los do3 
Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, k grandes 
bozes dizieron, 'Granada! Granada! por su niagestad, y 
por la reyna su muger.' La serinissimareyna D. Isabel, qua 
vio la senal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre da 
Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hinco de Rodi 
lias, y dio inflnitas gracias k Dios por la victoria que le avia 
dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la 
capilla del rey luego i canto de organo canto Te Deum lau- 
damu. Fue tan grandeel plazerque todosUoravan. I.iUego 
del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de beli- 
cas trompetas. Los Moros aniigos del rey, que querian ser 
Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valerosa Mu^a, tomaron mil 
dulzaynas y aiiafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores 
por toda la ciudad." — Ilistoria de las Oueiras Civiles da 
Oranada. 

5 " Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella nocho 
jugaron galanamente alcancias y caiias. Andava Granada 
aquella noclie con tanta alegria, y con tantas luniinarias, 
que parecia que so ardia la terra." — Historia de las Ouerrai 
Civiles de Granada, 

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in t!'e years 1775 
and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrenderor 
Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in 
the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing ; and that 
the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to tb« 
Moorish palace. 



132 



TALES AND HISTOIUC SCENES. 



Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
ITirough the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless 

eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry. 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours. 
Galled by the chain, though decked a while with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast. 
Deep pangs untold, liigh feelings unexpressed, 
Heroic spirits, unsul)mitting yet — 
Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded 

brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains beloAV, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene, 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien ? 
He who of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose whatc'or his fathers won ; 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have 

sealed, 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afric's wLlds the royal exile flies ; ' 
Yet pauses on his way to -weep in vain 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves. 
Bosomed in citron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in 

light. 
All in one moment bursting on his sight. 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanished years, 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Ween'st thou, Abdallah ? — Thou dost well 

to weep, 
O feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep ! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not as a man to die.'' 

1 " Los Gomeles todns se passeron en Africa, y el Rey 
Chico con ellos, que noqiiiso estar en Espaiia, y en Africa le 
mataron los Moros do aqiiellas partes, porque perdid ^ 
Cranada." — Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

2 Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by 
Ferdinand and Liabella, stopped on tlie hill of Padul to lake 



The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda'l 
bower. 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower 
No voice, no slep, is in her father's halls, 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls ■; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate, 
But all is hushed, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Haniet seek the Zegii maid : 
Iler grove is silent, her pavilion lone, 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flowi 
The stream whose music lulled her to repose. 

But O, to him, whose self-accusing thought 
Whis])ers 'twas he that desolation wrought ; 
He who his country and his faith betrayed. 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid ; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale • 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind. 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur — " Thou hast driven hei 

hence ! " 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recalled again ? 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, 
His name can rouse no feeling now — but scorn. 
O, bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest ; 
The avenger's task is closed : ^ he finds too lat^* 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
He was a lofty spirit, turned aside 
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and 

pride, 
And onward, in its new tumultuous course. 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask if such could be its native. sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more 



a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the siph? 
he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother 
the Sultaness Ayxa : "Thou dost well to weep, like a wo- 
man, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not 
how to defend and die for like a man." 

3 " El rey mando, que si quedavan Zegrl.i, qrie no vi^•lesse« 
en Granada, por la nialdad qui liizieron contra los ADencei- 
rages." — Guerras CiviUs it Grunadiu 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



13) 



The feverish energies of passion close, 
And his heart sinks in desolate repose, 
rurns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not 

less 
l?Vom its cvvn deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armor to the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpux arras ; ' there, on high, 
Where mountain snows are mingling with the 

sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke 

ye dread scenes ! where nature dwells alone, 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 

Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms. 

Veiled by the mists and girdled bj' the storms, — 

Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding 

caves. 
That hold communion with the torrent waves ; 
And ye, th' unstained and everlasting snows, 
That dwell above in bright and still repose ; 
To you, in every clime, in every age, 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage. 
Hath Freedom led her sons — untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
She, like the mountain eagle, still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquered heights. 
And build her eyy in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, 

swells. 
Wild Alpnxarras ! through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength has nerved each 

frame. 
And made each heart the temple of her flame. 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth, 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear, 

1 " The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, 
und the cities of Tangier ?iid Ceuta, are discovered from 
their summits ; they arfi sbout seventeen leagues in length, 
from Veks Ma'aga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and. 
abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. 
In these, mountains tl)« wretched remains of the Moors took 
wfugB." -Bourgoamne's Travels in Spaiiu 



All undismayed, privation and distress, 

And smUe the roses of the wilderi\ess : 

And mothers with their infants, tliere to dwell 

In the deep forest or the cavern cell. 

And rear their offspring 'midst the rocks, to be. 

If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band are veterans, o'er whosi 

head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow havt shed 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city ! and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallowed most : doth aught re 

main 
For these to prove of happiness or pain ? 
Life's cup is drained — earth fades before their 

eye; 
Their task is closing — they have but to die. 
Ask ye why fled they hither ? — that their doom 
Might be, to sink unfettered to the tomb. 
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, 
And buoyancy of spirit, formed to dare 
And suff"er all things — fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 
As on the arena where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 
Such are the tenants of the mountain hold. 
The high in heart, unconquered, uncontrolled : 
By day, the huntsmen of the wild — by night. 
Unwearied guardians of the watchfire's light. 
They from their bleak majestic home have caught 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, 
While all around them bids the soul arise 
To blend with nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 
Where tyranny is near : the bended knee. 
The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires , 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 
On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. 
What warrior band is toiling to explore 
The mountain pass, with pine wood shadowed 

o'er. 
Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness ? 
These are the sons of Spain ! — Your foes are 

near, 
O exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 
Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost cavei 
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves \ 

Who leads the invaders on ? — his features beai 
The deep- worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy 



Tis he ! 'tis he again ! the apostfite chief; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief. 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle field. 
Against his country's children, though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds : 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. 
So shall remorse and love the heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for 

peace. 
The mountain ccliocs are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Clifi's piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, 
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stained tiU 

then ; 
While swell the war note and the clash of spears 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait 
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. 
But he — whose spirit, panting for its rest, 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his 

breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aimed at another's breast, would still advance — 
Courts death in vain ; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 'twere bliss too great to die. 
Yes, Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate can 

wreak, 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath passed. 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpowered by toil. 
Dispersed, disheartened, through the pass they 

fly, 

Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high ; 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of 
despair. 

Yet he, to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home, 
Btill urges onward — undismayed to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread. 
But fear is for the happy — they may shrink 
From the steep precipice or torrent's brink ; 



They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb 
Not such hi* lot, who, schooled by fate severe, 
Were but too blest if aught remained to fear.' 
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below ; 
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, 
He holds his venturous track : supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwel 
Half in mid air, as balanced by a spell. 
Now hath his footstep gained the summit's head 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath flowers rise, 
And the rock rose unnoticed blooms and dies , 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side ' 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's chartered guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray ; 
Around, untrodden woods ; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er rday hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fixed, inherent dyes 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies ; ^ 
And the pure glittering snow realm, yet morf 

high, 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Libya's desert sands ; 
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown. 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound whose cadence dies upou his 
ear, 
He follows, reckless 'f l>i» bands are near. 
On by the rushing st'-eatD hi-s way he bends, 
Ajid through the mountain's forest zone ascends ; 

1 " Plut i Dieu que je craignisse ! " — Jlndromaque. 

2 Mrs. Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the 
Rhine, thus describes the colors of granite rocks in the 
mountains of the Bergstrasse : " The nearer we appr(}ached 
these mountains, the more we had occasion to adiiiire the 
various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices 
were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a 
blush approaching to lilac ; and sometimes gleams of a pale 
yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon theij 
sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too 
near these heights to be deceivsd by the illusions of aerial 
coloring ; the real hues o' their features were as beautifu! m 
their magnitude was subhme." 



THE ABElSrCERRAGE. 



13fi 



I'iercing the still and solitary shades , 

Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, I 

Eternal twilight's reign : — those mazes past, 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, 
And the lone wanderer now hath reached the 

source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien. 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyry rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round — 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. 
— What earthly feeling unabashed can dwell 
In nature's mighty presence ? — 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods. 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods ? 
These tbHr own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bia each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliff's, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave ; 
Shadowed by giant oaks, and rude and lone. 
It seems the temple of some power unknown, 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet ! at the tone ? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan ? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had 

fled. 
The unforgotten accents of the dead ! 
E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Its dark-green moss with blood is sprinkled 

o'er : 
He rushes on — and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughtered sire she bends. 
Lost in despair ; — yet, as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity, 
She lifts her head, and, all subdued by grief, 
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief: 
While r&i'e her thoughts, unconscious of the 

. past. 
And every woe forgetting — but the last. 

" Com'st thou to weep with me ? — for I am 
left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stained bier ; 
tTia child may call, but he no more shall hear. 



He bleeps — but never shall those eyes unclose 
'Twas not my voice that lulled him to repose ; 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thov 

mourn ? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn ? 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow I ' 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name, 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit came 
Each dark remembrance — by affliction's powel 
A while effaced in that o'erwhelming hour. 
To wake with tenfold strf^ngth : 'twas then her 

eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty. 
And o'er her wasted check a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

"Away ! I dream ! 0, how hath sorrow's might 
Bowed down my soul, and quenched its native 

light — 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thij tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band ? 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : — 
'Twas then he fell — he fell ! — and thou wert 

there ! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee ? — Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought ! 
'Twill soon be past — I bow to Heaven's decree, 
Which bade each pang be ministered by thee." 

" I had not deemed that aught remained belo 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
0, hear me yet ! — I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, frona the grave ; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife, 
In my own stern despair aaid scorn of life. 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows ! — hadst thou 

known 
All I have felt in silence and alone. 
E'en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

"But O, for thee, the loved and preciota 
flower. 
So fondly reared in luxury's guarded bower, 



1S6 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



From even' danger, every storm secured, 
How hast thou suffered ! what hast thou en- 
dured ! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks thy dwelling ! thou, who shouldst 

liave known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
O, yet forgive ! — be all my guilt forgot, 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot ! " 

" That lot is fixed - — 'twere fruitless to repine: 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 
I may forgive — but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 
No, Hamet ! no ! — too deeply are these traced ; 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep. 
E'en now, prophetic of my earh' doom, 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died ; 
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, 
Li pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

" And now, farewell ! — behold the summer 

day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw 

nigh, 
"With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
O, yet in time, away ! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare ! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn 

to fly? 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die ! " 
E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing 

tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their 

pace, 
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner's 

fac3; 
And all is hushed, till he who seems to wait 
In silent stem devotedness his fate, 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns ; 
Each mien is changed, each eye inrlignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their 

sheath : 
Bljod must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : lofty still his mien, 
His chpek unaltered, and his brow serene. 



Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's.ery , 
Fruitless her prayer, unmarked her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend. 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
O, not in vain its daring ! •— for the blow 
Aimed at his heart hath bade her lifeblood flow 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast 
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, 
For he is saved ! Behold the Zegri band, 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand : 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er, 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm : — a fading smile, 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while ; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last' faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved 1 
Yes ! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried ; 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrilled, 
But sterner duties called — and were fulfilled. 
And I am blest ! — To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, — and for thee 1 die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Severed on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and 

spare ! 
O, be his guilt forgotten in his woes. 
While I, beside my sire, in peace restore." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, 
and death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done^ 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — O, who may painty 
The grief to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart. 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed ; 
These have no words — nor are by words poi 
trayed. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain air. 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive munnurs bea 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras ; — wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo, *' Thou art gone! 

"Daughter of heroes! thou art gone 
To share his tomb who ?aye thee birth* 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



137 



Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 

It was not formed for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 
Which brightly passed and left no trace. 

" But calmly sleep ! — for thou art free, 
And hands unchained thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil daj^s ! 

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, 

The lingering death of liberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose ever^'' hope is fled. 
The time is past to mo am the dead. 

'« The days have beon, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flowed ; 

Now, as a home from grief and fear. 
We hail thy dark abode ! 

We, v/ho but linger to bequeath 

Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years ; 
And for the slumbercrs of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 

" Have we not seen despoiled by foes 
The land our fathers won of yore ? 

And is there yet a pang for those 
Who gaze on this no more ? 

O that like them 'twere ours to rest ! 

Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest ! " 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's 

grave. 
Severed in life, united in the tomb — 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal 

moan ; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watchfire's blaze, 
!!i.midst those rocks, in long-departed days, 
^When freedom fled, to hold, sequestered there, 
The stern and lofty councils of despair,) 
Borne exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild. 
Who the lone hours with mournful strains be- 
guiled, 

18 



Hath taught his mountain home the tale of thos« 
Who thus have suffered, and who thus repose 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS 

[" In the reign of Otho III., Emperor of Germany, th« 
Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently 
desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, mide a 
bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority 
of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal 
contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in tne Mole oi 
Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called tha 
Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks 
upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations ; and, 
pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, 
and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leadel 
was betrayed into his power, and immediately lielieaded, 
with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, con- 
cealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults ta 
which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge 
her husband and herself On the return of Otho from a pil- 
grimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of re- 
morse had induced him to undertake, she found means to 
be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence ; and a 
poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause 
of his painful death." — Sismondi, HUtory of the Italian 
Republics, vol. i.] 

" Li'orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tlennent 
encore la tete levee." — Mad. i>e Siakl. 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades. 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song. 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears ; 
But o'er the wrecks of other years, , 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; * 

1 " J'6tais alle passer quelques jours seuls 4 Tivoli. Je 
parcourusles environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana 
Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai 
dans les Sallesdes Thermes voisins du Pecile, (tnunumens de 
la villa,) sous un figuier qui avail renverse le pan d'un mur 
en s'elevant. Dans un petit salon octogon, ouvert devant 
moi, une vigne vierge av ait perce la voute de I'ed iftce, et son 
gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le lens du ;nur 
comme un serpent. Autour de moi, k travers U 4 arcades des 
ruines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campngne Ro- 
maine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les sal les (16- 
sertes ou venaient se refugier quelques merles solitaires 
Les fragmens de raa^onnerie etaient tapissees de ferfflles de 
scolopendre, dont la verdure satinee se dessinait comma un 
travail en mosaique sur la blancheur des marlires : ^i et U 
de hauts cypres renipla^aient les colonnes tonib6es dans ce« 
palais de la Mort; I'acanthe sauvage rampait k leurs pieds, 
sur des debris, comme si la nature s'6tait plu i reproduiw 
sur ces chefs-d'oetivre mutil^s d'architecture, Pomemenl 
de leur beauts passee ' HHAXBAr wakd's Souvenir* tf 
Jtali* 



38 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The cypress, in funereal grace. 
Usurps the vanished column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze 
The wall flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus leaves the marble hide 
They once adorned in sculptured pride , 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of llissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ? ' 
Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian reared 
From Tibur's vale have disappeared. 
We need no prescient sibyl there 
The doom of grandeur to declare ; 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy cUmb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time ; 
Each relic utters Fate's decree — 
The future as the past shall bo. 

Halls 'of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale ? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record 
There dwelt the world's departed lord, 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty or decay, 
And sunshine on each glowing hiU 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace — but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom.' 
Though vanished with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 

I The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies 
of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions — 
Jie Lycajiini, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the 
Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. 

s The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St. Angelo, 
was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his suc- 
tessful defence of Rome against the Goths. " The lover of 
the arts," says Gibbon, "must read with a sigh that the 
works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty 
pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the be- 
■iegers." He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping 
Faun of the Barherini palace was found, in a mutilated 
•tate, when the ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under 
Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadrian! was 
made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and 
bastions, outworks. Sec, were added to the original edifice, 
which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthi- 
tn pillars, and tjie brazen cone which crowned its e'jmmit. 



Though the fair forms by sculpture Avrougbt 
Each bodying some immortal thought. 
Which aer that temple of the dead 
Serene but solemn beauty shed. 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In time's abyss or Tiber's wave ; '^ 
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair 
Than art's bold hand hatlx imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind 
E.xpanding when all else declined, 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recalled the radiance passed away. 
Have made that ancient pile their home, 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path of light 
For those dim ages far too bright — 
Crescentius — long maintained the strife 
Which closed but with its martyr's life, 
And left th' imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; * 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last 
Spoke with the voice of ages past,* 

3 " Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables 
statues, ont ete jetees dans le Tiber, et sent cachees sous 
ses flots. Qui salt si, pour les chercher, on ne le detournera 
pas un jour de son lit .' Mais qiiand on songe que les chefs. 
d'cBuvres du genie humain snnt peut-etre li devant nous, el 
qu'un ceil plus per^ant les verrait 4. travers les ondes, I'on 
6prouve je ne sais quelle emotion, qui renait 4 Rome sans 
cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une societe pour 
lapens6e dans les ohjets physiques, muets partout ailleurs." 
— Mad. de Stael. 

* Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent chain 
pion of Jtoman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore 
the ancient constitution of the reiiuhlic, was put to death in 
the year 1155, by Adrian IV. This event is thus described 
by Sismondi, Hlstoire des Rcpuhllifues Ilaliennes, vol. ii. pp. 
68, 69. " Le prefet demeura dans le chateau Saint Ange 
avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la 
place destinee aux executions, devant la porte du peuple. 
Amaud de Brescia, eleve sur un bucher, fut attach^ 4 un 
poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit mesurer des yeux lea 
trois longues rues qui aboutissuient devant son echafaud; 
elles font presqu'une moitie de Rome. C'est 14 qu'habi- 
toient les hommes qu'il avoit si soiivcnt appeles 4 la Iihert6 
lis reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur legis- 
lateur. Le tumulte de l'ex6cution et la flamme du bQchei 
reveillirent les Romains ; ils s'armerent, ils accoururent, 
mais trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repoussferent, aver 
leurs lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloien 
du moins recueiller ses cenures comme de precieuses re- 
liques." 

6 " Posterity wi'l "on»pa.'« the virtues and failings o\ 
this extraorlinary nran , but in a long period of anarch; 
and servitude, the name ot Rieuzi has often been ce'ebrated 



THE WIDOW OF ORESCENTIUS. 



139 



Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled 

To mingle with the glorious dead, 

That 'midst the world's degenerate race 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place, 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin wooed. 

Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, 

Eio ai, be thy faults forgot ! 

F.ir thou, when all around thee lay 

Chained in the slumbers of decay — 

So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 

Had scarce a tear for liberty — 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair ! ' 

'Tis morn — and nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height, 
And yellow Tiber winds in light. 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strewed 
The wide Campagna's solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanished race ; 
Yet, o'er the ravaged path of time — 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime. 
Where nature still, though empires fall, 
Holds her triumphant festival — 
E'en desolation wears a smile, 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
And heaven's own light, earth's richest bloom, 
Array the riiin and the tomb. 

JJut she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air, 
Heeds not how fair the scene below, 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, 

as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Ro- 
man patriots." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. 
p. 3G2. 

1 " Le consul Tarentius Varron avoit fui honteusement 
usqu'i Venouse. Get homme, de la plus basse naissance, 
n'avoit ete eleve au consulat que pour niortifier la noblesse : 
mais le senat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux trl- 
omphe ; il vit combien il etoit n6cessaire qu'il s'attirit dans 
tette occasion la confiance du peuple — il alia au-devant 
Varron, et le remercia de ce jn'ii n'avoit pas desesperi de 
■a re/iubliqae." — Montesv'ieu's Orandeur et Decadence 
it* Homaias, 



Lie spread beneath ; not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast stiblime expanse ; 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 
On Hadrian's massy tomb alone ; 
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled 
His faithful few Crescentius led ; 
While she, his anxious bride, who now 
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 
Sought refuge in the hallowed fane. 
Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around. 
Again his native Rome shall see 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress tower — 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
AU vivified with hope and love 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives aU the soul of Italy ; 
A meaning lofty and inspired. 
As by her native daystar fired ; 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassioned thought. 
As fancy sheds, in visions bright. 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ; 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace, 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise, 
But deepened by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw. 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of lovelinesa,— 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall. 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see ! — the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
'Tis lowered — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry. 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome. 
Pour through the crowded streets of Roma 



I — 



140 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Now from her watchtowcr on the height, 
With step as fabled wood njinph's light, 
She flies — and s^\■il"c her way pursues 
'ITirough the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress groves, and fields o'erspread 
"With records of the conquering dead. 
And paths which track a glowing waste, 
She traverses in breathless haste ; 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reached the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Thronged are the streets, and, still renewed, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

— Is it their high-souled chief to greet 
That thus the Roman thousands meet ? 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius ! thine in song to blend; 

And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry ? 

— There is an air of breathless dread. 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round, 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step and wild each mien. 
Portentous of some awful scene. 

Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along. 
How did thine anxious heart beat high. 
Till rose suspense to agony I — 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close. 
And leave thj' heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands. 
With fearless mien but fettered hands? 
The ministers of death are nigh, 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind 
Which was not formed for chains to bind. 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Cicsc(mtius! freedom's daring son. 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won ? 
O, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Tl.us must the beam of glory close 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke ? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone,' 

I Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were 
Ker* *^ t^6 temple of Alars, Plutarch gives the following 



Sunk is the crowning city's throne;* 
Th' illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells, have long been pa6t. 
Tliy hfe hath been a shot star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at freedom's ruined shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fixed upon the deep-blue sky. 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled 
Around in desolation spread — 
Arch, temple, column, worn and graj, 
Recording triumphs passed away ; 
Works of the mighty and the free, 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be. 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor j'ears nor sorrows can efface. 
Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Erewhile so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul ? 



account : " In the eighth year of Numa's reign, a pestilence 
prevailed in Italy ; Rome also felt its ravages. While .he 
people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen 
buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this 
he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeriaand 
the Muses : that the buckler was sent down for the preser- 
vation of the city, and should be kept with great care ; thai 
eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size 
and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to 
steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell 
from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the 
place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently con- 
versed with the Muses, should be consecrated to those di- 
vinities ; and that the spring which watered the ground 
should be sacred to the use of tlie Vestal Virgins, daily to 
sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation 
of the pestilence is said to liave confirmed the truth of thii 
account." — Life of JVuma. 

2 % Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crown- 
ing city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are 
the honorable of the earth.'" — Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 

3 " Un melange bizarre de grandeur d'aine et de foiblesse 
entroit des cette epoque (I'onzi^me siecle) dans le caractfere 
des Romains. Un mouvement genereu.x vers Ic-s grandes 
choses faisoit place tout-i-coup i I'abattement ; il.'-. passoient 
delaliberte la plus orageuse, 4 la servitude la plus avilis- 
sante. On auroit dit que les mines et les portiques deserts 
de la capitale dti monde, entretenoient ses babitans dans le 
sentiment de leur impuissance ; au milieu de ces monumens 
de leur domination passee, les citoyens epiouvoient d'une 
maniere trop decourageante leur propre nuUite. Le nom 
des Romains qu'ils portoient ranimoit frequcmment leul 
enthousiasme, comme II le ranime encore aujourd'hui ;mai9 
bientdt la vue de Rome, du forum desert, des sept coUinet 
de nouveau rendues au p.lturage des troupcaux, des templet 
d^soles, des monumens tombant en ruiiic, les ratnenoit 1 
eentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains d'autrefois." — &■» 
MONOi, Hintoire des RipubUqu.es Jtaliennes, vol. i. p. 172. 



No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 

Which told of bitterest agony ? 

He heard it, and at once, subdued, 

Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 

And 'midst the gazing throngs around 

One well-known form his glance hath found — 

One fondly loving and beloved. 

In grief, in pffril, faithful proved. 

Yes ! in the wildness of despair, 

She7his devoted bride, is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, 

The light of frenzy in her eyes : 

But ere her arms can clasp the form 

Which life ere long must cease to warm — 

Ere on his agonizing breast 

Her heart can heave, her head can rest — 

Checked in her course by ruthless hands, 

Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 

With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 

Frozen and fixed in horror's trance ; 

Spell bound, as every sense were fled. 

And thought o'erwhelmed, and feeling dead ; 

And the light waving of her hair. 

And veil, far floating on the air, 

Alone, in that dread moment, show 

She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more ; 
But hers — so vainly formed to prove 
The pure devotedness of love, 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high — 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain. 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride, 
If each warm hope at once hath died. 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scattered — ne'er to reunite. 



Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled ? 



A monument that doth not tcU 

The tale of liberty's farewell ? 

Italia ! thou art but a grave 

Where flowers luxuriate o'er the bravt 

And nature gives her treasures birth 

O'er all that hath been great on earth. 

Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled 

When thou wert freedom's favored child ; 

Though fane and tomb alike are low. 

Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow ; 

And, robed in that exulting ray. 

Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay — 

O, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 

In nature's pomp magnificent ! 

What marvel if, when aU was lost, 

Still on thy bright, enchanted coast, 

Though many an omen warned him thence, 

Linger'd the lord of eloquence,' 

Still gazing on the lovely sky. 

Whose radiance wooed him — but to die ? 

Like him, who would not linger there, 

Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair ? 

Who ' iUidst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 

Nor bid a while his griefs farewell ? 



1 " As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finduig 
a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along 
to CircEEum with a favorable wind. The pilots were pre- 
paring immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was 
that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes 
in Caesar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs 
on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination 
Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made 
again for the sea. He passed the night in the most per- 
plexing and horrid thoughts ; insonuich, that lie was some- 
times inclined to go privately into Cajsar's house, and stab 
himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the 
divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred 
from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally 
distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in 
the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by 
sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the sum- 
mer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a tenjple of 
Apollo on that coast, from which a flight ol trows came with 
great noise towards Cicero's vessel as it was making and 
They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sai 
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All 
looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero went on shojv. 
and, entering his house, lay down to repose h'.T.sel£ In tbt 
mean time a number of the crows settled ir f^e nam'wr 
window, and croaked in the most doleful manne; ^-ie of 
them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted 
with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had 
covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to 
reproach themselves. ' Shall we,' said they, ' remain to b« 
spectators of our master's murder.'' Shall we not protect 
him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the 
brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention .' ' 
Then, ijartly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him inta 
his litter, and carried him towards the sea." — Pi,utaecHj 
l^e of Cicero. 



[42 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Hath not thy pure and genial air 

Balm for all sadness but despair ? ' 

No ; there are pangs whose deep-worn trace 

Not all thy magic can ett'ace! 

Hearts by unnindness wrung may learn 

The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 

Time may steal on with silent tread, 

And dry the tear that mourns the dead, 

May change fond love, subdue regret, 

And teach e'en vengeance to forget ; 

But thou, liemorse ! there is no charm 

Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 

Yaiii are bright suns and laughing skies 

To scothe thy victim's agonies. 

The heart once made thy burning throne, 

Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crcscentius ! on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light, 
. Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower. 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
0, thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

A\'Tiere, through Gargano's woody dells, 
O'er bending oaks the north wind swells,* 
A saintel hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom. 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twns his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 

1 " Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delii ht and joy, able to drive 
All sadness 1 ut despair." — Milton. 

» Mount Gargano. "This ridge of mountains forms a very 
large priinuintory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated 
fmm the Apennines <in the west by the plains of Lucera and 
San Scvero. We took a ride into the heart of the moun- 
tains thriiii};li shady dells and noble woods, which brought 
to our niinils the venerable groves that in ancient times bent 
with 'lie loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of 
Garganus : 

' Aquilonibus 
Qucrccta Gargani luborant, 
Et foliia viduantur orni,' — Horace. 

" There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and com- 
aion oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna ash. The 
*reltered valleys nre industriously cultivated, and seem to be 
kJestwith luxuriant vegetation." — Swinburne's Travels 



Around that dweller of the wild 

Ther* " bright appearances " have smilei,* 

And angel wings at eve have been 

Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 

And oft from that secluded bower 

Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour 

A swell of viewless harps, a sound 

Of warbled anthems pealing round. 

O, none but voices of the sky 

Might wake that thrilling harmony, 

Whose tones, whose very echoes made 

An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 

Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ; 

Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 

And veiled his low sepulchral stone : 

Yet still the spot is holy, still 

Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 

And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 

Aerial vesper hymns may hear 

Around those forest precincts float, 

Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. 

Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 

To that rude shrine's departed saint, 

And deem that spirits of the blest 

There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one. Peace, may yet be found, 
'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With nature's lonelj-^ majesty. 

Vain, vain the search ! — his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest ; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er, 
The hopes that cheered it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and, day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his ej'e hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone 
Joyless as one on Avhom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour : 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 

8 " In yonder nether world where shall 1 seek 

His bright appearances, or footstep trace .' " — M n to at 



THE WIDOW or CRESCENTIUS. 141 


And suns, that shed on all below 


Whate'er that thought, still unexpressed 


Their full and viviiying glow, 


Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 


From him alone theii- power withhold, 


The pride his haughty brow reveals 


And leave his heart in darkness cold. 


All other passion well conceals — 


Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair — 


He breathes each wounded feeling's tcne 


He only seems to perish there. 


In music's eloquence alone ; 




His soul's deep voice is only poured 


Yet sometimes will a transient smile 


Through his full song and swelling chord. 


Plaj- o'er his faded cheek a while, 




When breathes his minstrel boy a strain 


He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 


Of power to lull all earthly pain — 


Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 


So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 


And, save when Otho bids his lay 


Th' ethereal music of a dream, 


Its half-unearthly power essay 


A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 


In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 


Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 


His haunts are wild and lonely still. 


Sweet is that lay ! and yet its flow 


Far distant from the heedless throng, 


Hath language only given to woe ; 


He roves old Tiber's banks along. 


And if at times its wakening swell 


Where Empire's desolate remains 


Some tale of glory seems to tell, 


Lie scattered o'er the silent plains; 


Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 


Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine 


Lost in a dirge's harmony. 


That strews the desert Palatine, 


0, many a pang the heart hath proved. 


With mournful, yet commanding mien. 


Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved, 


Like the sad genius of the scene. 


Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 


Entranced in awful thought appears 


Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 


To commune with departed years. 


Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy — 


Or at the dead of night, when Rome 


He is no child of hope and joy ! 


Seems of heroic shades the home ; 


Though few his years, yet have they been 


When Tiber's murmuring voice recaUa 


Such as leave traces on the mien. 


The mighty to their ancient halls ; 


And o'er the roses of our prime 


When hushed is every meaner sound, 


Br'^-athe other blights than those of time. 


And the deep moonlight calm around 




Leaves to the solemn scene alone 


^I'et seems his spirit wild and proud, 


The majesty of ages flown — 


Bv grief uiisoftened and unbowed. 


A pilgrim to each hero's tomb. 


0, there are sorrows which impart 


He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 


A sternness foreign to the heart, 


And 'midst those dwellings of decay 


And, rushing Avith an earthquake's power, 


At times will breathe so sad a lay, 


That makes a desert in an hour, 


So wild a grandeur in each tone. 


Rouse the dread passions in their course. 


'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 


As tempests wake the billows' force' — 




'Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face, 


Awake thy pealing harp again. 


The stamp of woes like these to trace. 


But breathe a more exulting strain, 


0, where can ruins awe mankind 


Young Guide ! for a while forgot 


Dark as the ruins of the mind ? 


Be the dark Secrets of thy lot, 




And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 


His mien is lofty, but his gaze 


To speed the banquet's hour along ! — 


Too well a wandering soul betrays : 


The feast is spread, and music's caU. 


His full dark eye at times is bright 


Is echoing through the royal hall. 


With strange and momentary light, 


And banners wave and trophies shine 


Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 


O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 


O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow • 


And Otho seeks a while to chaao 


And oft his features and his air 


The thoughts he never can erasp, 


A shade of troubled mystery wear, 


And bid the voice, whose miirmun 


A gla ice of hurried wildness, fraught 


deep 


With some unfathomable thought. 


Rise like a spirit on his sleep 



The still small voice of conscience — die, 

Lost in tlie din of revelry. 

On liis ]iiie brow dejection lowers, 

But that shall yield to festal hours ; 

A gloom is in his faded eye, 

But that from music's power shall fly ; 

His wasted cheek is wan with care, 

But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 

Wako, Guide ' wake thy numbers high. 

Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 

.\jid pour upon the enraptured ear 

Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 

Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 

And banish aught resembling woe ; 

And if a thought intrude of power 

To mar the bright convivial hour, 

Still must its influence lurk unseen. 

And cloud the heart — but not the mien ! 

Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow 
Still darker lower the shadows now ; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead; 
Now crimsoned with a hectic dye. 
The burning flush of agony ! 
His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppressed ; 
Now his dim eye seems fixed and glazed. 
And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 
And as, with unavailing aid, 
Around him throng his guests dismayed, 
He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter — " This is death ! " 

Then rushed that haughty child of 
song. 
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. 
Filled with a strange delirious light, 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright ; 
And on the sufierer's mien a while 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, whUc thus he cried : — 
" Yes ! these are death pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
O, well was mixed the deadly draught, 
And long and deeply hast thou quaffed; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be, 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet these are but a moment's throes — 
Howe'cr intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shalt thou j-ield thy fleeting breath — 
Ml/ life hath been a lingering death, 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood spot on the page of time ! 



'• Deem'st thou my mind of reason void ? 
It is not frenzied — but destroyed ! 
Ay ! view the wreck with shuddering thought 
That work of ruin thou Jiast wrought ! 
The secret of thy doom to tell. 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania ! — once a hero's bride ! 
Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 
And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 
How couldst ihoti trust in aught again .' 

" He died, and I was changed — my sou\ 
A lonely wanderer, spurned control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurled. 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrowii. 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed, fulfilled the vow — 
The hand of death is on thee now. 
Betrayer ! in thy turn betrayed. 
The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 
Thine hour is come — the time hath been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene ; 
That feeling long is passed — my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

" Ye that around me shuddering staud, 
Y"e chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom ? 
Y'e wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! 
He sleeps unhonored — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ' 
Are not the great of old with her. 
That city of the sepiilchre ? 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there ! " 

The day departs — that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away : 
From purple heavens its lingering beaia 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream. 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still 
As if, unstained by crime or woe. 
Its hours had passed in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Marked with a strange and awful scene ; 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His biuning race hath brightly run. 



THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



14S 



Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
O, thus with tempests of a day 
"We struggle, and we pass away, 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future day shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By thein unknown, by thee forgot. 



THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY 
AND CLEOPATRA. 

l" Antony, concluding that he could not die more honor- 
«bly than hi hattle, determined to attack Cajsar at the same 
rime both by sea and land. The night preceding the execu- 
tion of (his design, he ordered his servants at supper to ren- 
der him their best services that nveiiinj!, and fill the wine 
round plenfiPilly, for tlie day following they might belong 
to aKotlier master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no 
longer of confetiueiice either to them or to himself. His 
friends were affected, and wept to hear liim talk tlius ; which 
when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that 
his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to 
those of an honorable death. At the dead of night, wlien 
universal silence reigned through the city— a silence that 
was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day — 
on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, 
and a ncMSB which resembled the exclamations of Baccha- 
nals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through 
the wliole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the 
enemy's camp. Those who rcfl3ctcd on this prodigy con- 
cluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to 
imitate, had then forsaken him." — Langhorne's Plutarch,] 

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 

O stately Alexandria ! — yet the sound 
Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swelled from thy splendid fabrics far around 
O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 

In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column, rich with precious dyes, 
That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance played 
O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillared 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art arrayed 
In godlike beauty, awfidly serene. 
19 



O, how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every faco 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might traoe, 
Though vainly masked in smiles which aro not 

mirth, 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the wota 
of earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths, whoso 
transient bloom 
May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be withered, when th» 
tomb 
Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle, and may set 

In death — but till the mantling wine cup high ! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 
Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possessed 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged foi 
rest. 

Its joys ! 0, mark yon proud Triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
'Midst pleasure's lotus bowers his steps have 
been ; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
There is delusion in its meteor lire. 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of 
deeper woe. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow, 
To that ascendant and undying name. 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now 
Thy glory is departed, but hath left 

A lingering light around thee ! in decay 
Not less than kingly — though of all bcr<>ft, 

Thou seem'st as empire had not passed away, 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate 
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterio<us fate : 

But thou, enchantress queen ! whose love hatl 
made 
His desolation — thou art by his side, 
In all thy sovereignty of charms arrayed. 

To meet the storm with still unconquerod 
pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 
Of error be upon thee, there is power 



He 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 
O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour; 
And the dark hciiuty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed -with wild sublimity. 

Thine aspect, all impassioned, Avears a light 

Ins])iring and inspired — tliy cheek a dye 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

"With an immortal lire — in every beam 
It darts there kindles some heroic thought. 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 
For thou with death hast communed to attain 
Dread kwow ledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain.' 

And the stern courage by such musings lent. 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the miijesty of mighty woes ; 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen lloman, gazes on thee yet, 
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soared 

Can deem the daystar of its glory set ; 
So&rce his charmed heart believes that power 

can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around, 

Which mark that ruined leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom pro- 
found 
Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he 
erics ; 
" Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies. 

Your chief in cold forgetfulncss ma}' sleep ; 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea. 
And the red bowl again is crowned-^ but not 
for me. 

" ict weep not thus. The struggle is not o'er, 
O victors of Philippi I many a field 

» t iciipatra made a collertion of poisonoua drugs, and be- 
iii>; (lesiroiis to know wliich was least painful ) i the opera- 
tion, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons 
as were (|iiiik iri their operatinn. she found lo be attended 
with violei.f pain and ronviilsii)ns ; such as were milder 
•vere slow in their cfTect : she therefore apj)lied herself to 
llje examiiiaiioii of venomous creatures; and at length she 
tiuml that the bile of tlie asp was the most eliuihle kind of 
death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy. — Seo 

^kTl.BCH. 



Ilath yielded palms to us : one effort more ! 

By onelstern conflict must our doom be sealed. 
Forgot not, Romans ! o'er a Eubjoct world 

IIow royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though, from his ej-ry of dominion hurled. 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head! 
Yet sovereign still, if banished from the sky, 
The sun's indignant bird, lie must not droop — 
but die." 

The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep ; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of 
sleep. 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom, 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams ; 

Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb; 
Dreams dark and ominous, but t/wrn to cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumbcrers, wake ! Hark ! heard ye not 
a sound 
Of gathering tumult ? — Near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, 
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets the 
tread 
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and 
dread, 
Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, 
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not ol 
the earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling 
strain 
Hath mnre mysterious power, and birth more 
high; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern, terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown I ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exijlting move along 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals thy doom — " De- 
spair and die \" '^ 



' To-morrow in the battle think on me. 
And fall thy f dgeless sword : iespair and die ! " 

Richard III 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 

[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the 
aernian and Scythian hordes united under the command of 
AlariC; the historian of The Decline mid Fall if the Roman 
EiK^t tiiiis proceeds : " Whether fame, or conquest, or 
riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with 
an indefatigable ardor, which could neither be quelled by 
adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached 
the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the 
neighboring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Vet even 
the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate 
step to the important expedition which he already meditated 
Igainst the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium 
and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrow- 
est passage, about one mile and a half broad ; and the fab- 
ulous monsters of the deep — the rocks of Scylla and the 
whirlpool of Charyhdis — could terrify none but the most 
timid and unskilful mariners : yet, as soon as the first di- 
vision of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, 
which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their 
courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element ; and 
the wliole design was defeated by the premature death of 
Alaric, wliich fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of 
his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians 
was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valor and for- 
tune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labor 
of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of 
the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Con- 
Bontia. The royal scptilchre, adorned with the splendid 
spoils and tropliios of Rome, was constructed in the vacant 
bed ; the waters were then resteired to their natural channel, 
and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been 
deposited was forever concealed by the inhuman massacre of 
tl e prisoners who had been employed to execute the work." 
- • Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.] 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast ? 
The march of hosts as Alaric passed ? 
His steps have tracked that glorious clime, 
The birthplace of heroic time ; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead,' 
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He passed — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains , 
And woke they not — the brave, the free, 
To guard their own Thermopylse ? 



1 After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though such 
numbers we-e put to the sword, tliere were as many who 
laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking 
»-'untry What reduced the best men among them to this 
ilespar.' ■'' finding any mercy or moderate terms fi^r Athens, 
»vas the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the 
intercession of Midias and Galliphon, and the exiles who 
(hrew themselves at his feet, partly by the entreaties of 
Ihe senators who attended him in that expedition, and being 
himself satiated with blood esides, he was at last prevailed 
ipon to stop his hand ; an( in compliment to the ancient 
Athenians, he said, ' he forgave the many for the sake of 
iie few, the Uohig for the dead,'' " — Plutarch. 



And left they not their silent dwelling, 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling? 
No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept, 
Sad freedom battled not — but wept ! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band ; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke 
When Athens owned the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair ? 
O City of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle call — 
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall ? 
Did no Camillus from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol agaitr ? 
0, who shall tell the days to be 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee ! 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast ' 
The march of hosts as Alaric passed ? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,' 
Burst on the Eternal City's sleep : — 
How woke the mighty? She whose will 
So long had bid the world be still. 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eyo 
Th' ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke — to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey. 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Poured from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gav* 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower, 
Revealed the throngs, for aid divine. 
Clinging to many a worshipped shrine : 
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword, with carnage red. 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the flj'ing, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas, that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare i 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress ! 



2 " At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silmtl; 
opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremen 
doMs sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred ana 
sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial 
city, which had subdued and civilized so considerable a 
portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious "ury o. 
the tribes of Germany and Scythia." — Decline and Fail ot 
the Roman Empire, vol. v. p 311 



148 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Now, her long race of glory run, 
Without a combat Rome is won, 
And from her plundered temples forth 
Rush tlie tierce children of the North, 
To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude clime denies. 

Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore, 
With all their graceful colonnades, 
And crystal baths, and myrtle sliades, 
Along the blue Hesperian deep. 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep — 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline ; 
And the tall piano, whose roots ye fed 
With rich libations duly shed,' 
O'er guests, unlike your vanished friends, 
Its bowery canopy extends. 
For them the southern heaven is glow- 
ing. 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 
For them the marble halls unfold. 
Whore nobler beings dwelt of old, 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords, 
Or wreaths of Paestan roses twine 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet, though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes — 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art — 
O, not for them hath Genius given 

Vo Parian stone the fire of heaven. 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise. 
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade 
People the dark-greea laurel shade. 
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity ; 

ind rude his hand Avhich dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 
Chieftains ! the war note's call invites ; 
And other lands must yet be won, 
And other deeds of havoc done. 

1 The plane tree was much cultivated among the Romans, 
on account of ita extraordinary shade ; and tliey used to 
nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. 
Temple observes) that " this tree loved that liquor as well as 
tliose who used to drink it under its shade." — See the notes 
to Mslmoth's Pliny. 



Warriors ! your flowery bondage break ; 
Sons of the stormy North, awake ! 
The barks arc launching from the steep — 
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,''* 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 
Where shall his race of victory close? 
When shall the ravaged earth repose? 
But hark ! what wildly-mingling cries 
From Scji;hia's camp tumultuous rise.' 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air? 
A sterner conqueror hath been there ! 
A conqueror — yet his paths are peace, 
He comes to bring the world's release; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
The avenger, the deliverer — Death ! 

Is then that daring spirit fled ? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 
Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength 
And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines. 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines ; 
The land by conquest made his own, 
Can yield him now — a grave alone. 
But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 
No common sepulchre shall be ! 
O, make his tomb where mortal eye 
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! 
Where mortal foot may never tread 
Above a victor monarch's bed. 
Let not his royal dust be hid 
'Neath star- aspiring pyramid ; 
Nor bid the gathered mound arise, 
To bear his memory to the skies. 
Years roll away — oblivion claims 
Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 
And hands profane disturb the clay 
That once was fired with glory's ray ; 
And Avarice, from their secret gloom, 
Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 
But thou, O leader of the free ! 
That general doom awaits not thee : 
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude, 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound. 
The Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course. 
Bid Nature yield to human force, 
And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obeyed his lord's command. 

3 Sicily was anciently considered as the favored and feci 
liar dominion of Ceres. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



14d 



Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past, 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plundered Rome ; 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastcner of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victoij's toil. 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyred captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood, 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath passed on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept ; 
Temples of gods and domes of kings 
Are mouldering with forgotten things , 
Yet not shall ages o'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest : 
Still rolls, like them, the untailing river, 
The guardian of his dust forever. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 

[" This governor, who had braved death when it was at a 
distance, and protested that the sun should never see him 
lurvive Carthage — this fierce Asdrubal was so mean spirited 
as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the con- 
queror's feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival 
humbled, granted his life, and kept hitn to grace his tri- 
umph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner under- 
stood that their commander had abandoned the place, than 
they tlirew open the gates, and put the proconsul in posses- 
sion of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend 
with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to 
despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a 
second citadel within the first : there the proconsul attacked 
them ; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no 
way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, 
they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the 
roof of the building : there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her 
best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of 
triumph ; and after liaving uttered the most bitter impreca- 
tions against her husband, whom she saw standing below 
with Eniilianus, ' Base coward ! ' said she, ' the mean 
things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee ; 
thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.' 
Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them 
Doth, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw 
them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after 
them mto the flames." — An.cient Universal History.'] 

The sun sets brightly — but a ruddier glow 
O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw. 



Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 
In lurid splendor from her domes aspire ; 
Swayed by the wind, they Avave — while glarei 

the sky 
As when the desert's red simoom is nigh ; 
The sculptured altar and the pillared hall 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall ; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams, — 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimsoned by its beams ' 
While captive thousands, bound in Romau 

chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, 
Swells from the victors' tents with ivy crowned.' 
— But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest 

height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire. 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire ? 
She might be deemed a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. 
The flames are gathering round — intensely 

bright, 
FuU on her features glares their meteor light ; 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there. 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair , 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate. 
Mightier than death, untamable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flushed is her cheek, inspired her haughty 

mien — 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 
Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry 
Cling round her . shrinking as the flame draws 

nigh. 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest. 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ? 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign ^ 

Fixed is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands 
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perished, fled the strife. 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor ! live ! " she cries, " since dear tc 

thee. 
E'en in thv fetters, can existence be • 

1 It was a Romaf custom to adorn the tents of victcn 
with ivy. 



iU) 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Scorned aud dishonored live ! — with Wasted 

name, 
The Homan's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O slave in si)irit ! bitter be thy cliain 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase cahn slumber from thy wearied eyes ; 
Still may tlicir voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, 
rill vain remorse thy withered heart consume. 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 
E"en now my sons shall die — and thou, their 

sire. 
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not r — 'Twas thine 

to fly — 
'Tis mine with these to sufler and to die. 
Behold their fate — the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave," 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams. 
Swift from her children's hearts the lifeblood 

streams ; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 
^^'hose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high. 
Then deep 'midst rolling iiames is lost to mor- 
tal eye. 



HELIODORXTS IN THE TEMPLE. 

f From Maccabees, hook ii., chapter 3, verse 21. " Then it 
WoulJ have pitied a man to see the falling down of the niiil- 
titude of all sorts, and tlio fear of tlie high priest, lieiiig in 
lU(h an agony. — 93. They tlien called npnn the Almighty 
Lord lo keep the thing;) committed of trust safe and snre, for 
those that had committed them. — 23. Nevertheless Helio- 
dorns executed that which was decreed. — 24. Now as ne 
was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, 
the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a 
great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with 
him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and 
vere sore afraid. — 25. For there appeared unto them a horse 
rt'ith a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair 
covering ; and lie ran fierc ely, and smote at lieliodoriis with 
his fore feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the l)orse 
had complete harness of gold. — 2(i. Moreover, two other 
/oiing men appeared before him, notable in strength, excel- 
lent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on 
either side, and .scourged him continually, and gave him 
many sore stripes. — 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to 
the ground, and was conipiussed with great darkness ; but 
ihcy that were with him toi:k him up, and put him into a 
litter. —28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and 
with all his guard into llie said treasury, they carried out, 
being unable to help himself with his weapons, and mani- 
festly they acknowledged the power of God. —29. For he 
by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless witb- 
mt all hope of life."j 



A SOUND (jf woe in Sa'.etr^ ; xnournfui cries 
Rose from her dwellings — youthiul checkl 
were pale. 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer. 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendor of their fair array. 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, 
And thronged the streets in hurrying, wild 
dismay ; 

While knelt thy priests before His aAvful siirmo 

Who made of old renown and empire tnine. 

But on the spoiler moves! Irui ucmplc's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, Lib guards unfold; 

And all the scene reveult if j &iu»;mn state. 
Its courts and pillars, ri< h with sculptured 
gold; 

And man with eye unhaLowed views th' abode, 

The severed spot, the dwelling-place of God. 

Where art thou, Mightj- Presence ! that of yor« 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veiled in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest ? 

Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through the AssjTian host. 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight 
hour. 

To tame the proud, to hush the invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the dayspring on the silent scene. 

And death alone revealed where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake, Chastener ! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill. 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath streamed the house of holiness to fill ? 

O, yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal One ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plundert-r undismayed 
Hastes on, the sacred chauioers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion and the widow's store : 

What recks his heart though age unsuccored die 

And want consume the cheek of infancy ? 

Away, intruders ! — hark ! a mighty sound ! 
Behold, a burst of light ! — away, away ! 



NIGHT SCENE IN GENOA. 



IB> 



A. fearful glory fills the temple round, 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 
His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame ! 

His neck is clothed with thunder,' and his mane 
Seem' wa^-lng fire — the kindling of his eye 

Is as a i.ieteor — ardent with disdain 

His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 

Instinct with light he seems, and formed to bear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

ITironed on that burning charger ? Bright his 
form, 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendor of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand, 
All armed, and kingly in commanding grace — 

O, more than kingly — godlike ! — sternly grand, 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given, 

Magnificeni in all the wrath of Heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is 
bowed 
In trembling awe ; but, as to fields of fight, 
Th' unearthly war steed, rushing through the 
crowd. 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might ; 
And the stern angels of that dread abode 
Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness — thick darkness ! — low on earth he 
lies, 

Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — 
Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 

Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil ; 
And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 
Is borne from that inviolable fane; 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 
Have passed, with all their dreadful pomp, 
away ; 
Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on 
high 
Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; 
Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill ! 
Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. 



I '• Ilast thou given the horse strength f Hast thou clothed 
biB neck with thunder? " — Job, chap, xxxix. v. 19. 



NIGHT SCENE IN GENOA 

FROM SISMONDl's " REPUBLiaUES ITALIENNES.' 

[" En meme temps que les Genois poursuivoient s.ve{ 
ardeur la guerre centre Pise, ils etoient dechires eux-n)emeE 
par une discorde civile. Les consuls de I'annee 11C9, poul 
retablir la paix dans leur patrie, an milieu des factions sotiide* 
i leur voix et plus puissantes qu'eux, furent obliges d'durdil 
en quelque sorte une conspiration. lis commencerent pal 
s'assurer secreteinent des dispositioi^s pacifiques de plusieura 
des citoyens, qui cependant etoient entraines dans les emeu- 
tes par leur parente avec les chefi- de faction ; puis, se con- 
certant avec le venerable vieillard, Hugues, leur arclieveque, 
ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler an son 
des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que 
la surprise et I'alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au 
milieu de I'obscurite de la nuit, rendroit I'assemblee et plu3 
complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au 
parlement general, Virent, au milieu de la place publique, le 
vieil archeveque, entoure de son clerge en habit de c6r6- 
monies, et portant des torches allumees ; tandis que lea 
reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, 
etoient exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus 
respectables pcrtoient i lenrs mains des croix suppliantes. 
Des que I'assemblee fut forniee, le vieillard se leva, et de sa 
voix cas.see il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de 
paix, au nom du saint de leurs 3.mes, au nom de leur patrie 
et de la liberie dont leurs discordes entraSneroient la mine, 
de j'irer sur I'evan^ule I'o'jbli de leurs querelles, et la paix i 
venir. 

" Les h^rauts, dfes qu'il eut Urn de parler, s'avancfcrent 
aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de I'une des factions 
que etoit present i I'assemblee, et, secondes par les acclama 
tions de tout le pen pie, et par les pri^res de ses pr.rens eux- 
memes, ils le sommferent de se con former au vceu des consuls 
et de la nation. 

" Roland, i leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asseyant 
par terre en versant des larmes, il appela 4 haute voix les 
morts qu'il avoit jure de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient 
pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne 
pouvoit le determiner i s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 
I'archeveque et le clerge, s'approch6rent de lui, et, renouve- 
lant leurs priferes, ils I'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer 
sur I'evangile I'oubli de ses inimities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo 
de Volta, n'etoient pas presens 4 I'apsemblce, mais le peuple 
et le clerg6 se porterent en foule 4 leurs maisons; ils lea 
trouverent deji ebranles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, 
et, profitant de leur emotion, ils leur firent jurer une recon- 
ciliation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de 
la faction opposee. Alors les cloches de la villa sonnerpn( 
en temoignage d'all6gresse, et I'archeveque de retour sur la 
place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eiP 
honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve leur patrie." - 
Histoire des Rspub'iques Italiennes, vol. ii. pp. 149, 150.] 

In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear. 
Was heard, announcing danger near : 
Though deadliest foes were there, wheal 

hate 
But slumbered till its hour of fate. 



62 TALES AND HISTOHIO SPEXES. 


Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, 


He speaks — and from the thr mgs arour>d 


Sunk the wide citf to repose. 


Is heard not e'en a Avhispered sound ; 




Awe-struck each heart, ani lixcl ctiCi 


But when deep midnight reigned around, 


glance, 


All sudden woke the alarm bell's sound, 


They stand as in a speli-bound trance ; 


Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 


He speaks — 0, who can hear nor own 


Bore its dicad summons o'er the seas. 


The might of each prevailing tone ? 


Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 




Thy sons, the free, the fearless hearted ; 


" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long 


Then mingled with th' awakening peal 


Aroused to strife by mutual wrong. 


Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 


Whose fierce and far-transmitted hale 


Arm, warriors ! arm ! for danger calls ; 


Hath made your country desolate ; 


Arise to guard your native walls ! 


Now by the love ye bear her name. 


With breathless haste the gathering throng 


By that pure spark of holy flame 


Hurry the echoing streets along ; 


On freedom's altar brightly burning. 


Through darkness rushing to the scene 


But, once extinguished, ne'er returning; 


Where their bold councils still convene. 


By all j'our hopes of bliss to come 




When burst the bondage of the tomb : 


But there a blaze of torches bright 


By Him, the God who bade us live 


Pours its red radiance on the night. 


To aid each other, and forgiv<» 


O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, 


I call upon ye to resign 


With every fitful night wind swaying : 


Your discords at your country's shrina 


Now floating o'er each tall arcade, 


Each ancient feud in peace atone, 


Around the pillared scene displayed, 


Wield your keen swords for her alonu, 


In light relieved by depth of shade : 


And swear upon the cross, to cast 


And noAv, with ruddy meteor glai-e. 


Oblivion's mantle o'er the past! " 


Full streaming on the silvery hair 




And the bright cross of him who stands 


No voice replies. The holy bands 


Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, 


Advance to where yon chieftain stand»j, 


Girt with his consecrated train, 


With folded arms, and brow of gloom 


The haUowed servants of the fane. 


O'ershadowed by his floating plume. 


Of life's past woes the fading trace 


To him they lift the cross — in vain : 


Hath given that aged patriarch's face 


He turns — 0, say not with disdain. 


Expression holy, deep, resigned. 


But with a mien of haughty grief. 


The calm subUmity of mind. 


That seeks not e'en from Heaven relief. 


Years o'er his snowy head have passed. 


He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 


And left him of his race the last. 


Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks : — 


Alone on earth — yet still his mien 


" Father ! not thus the wounds may close 


Is bright with majesty serene ; 


Inflicted by eternal foes. 


And those high hopes, whose guiding star 


Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface 


Shines from th' eternal worlds afar. 


The dread volcano's burning trace ? ■ 


Have with that light illumed his eye 


Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 


Whose fount is immortality, 


Be smiling as it once hath been ? 


And o'er his features poured a ray 


No ! for the deeds the sword hath done 


Of glory, not to pa^s away. 


Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 


He seems a being who hath known 


The words by hatred spoke inay not 


Communion with his God alone, 


Be as a summer breeze forgot ! 


On earth by nought but pity's tie 


'Tis vain — we deem the war feud's rage 


Detained a moment from on high ! 


A portion of our heritage. 


One to sublimer worlds allied. 


Leaders, now slumbering with their famy 


One from all passion purified, 


Bequeathed us that undying flame ; 


E'en now half mingled with the sky. 


Hearts that have long been still and eold 


And all prepared — 0, not to die — 


Yet rule us from their silent mould ; 


But, like the prophet, to aspire, 


And voices, heard on earth no more, 


In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 


Speak to our spirits as of yore 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 



153 



Talk not of mercy ! — blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 
Nought else can pay that mighty debt, 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses. From the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now ; 
His reverend form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command; 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Fnied with prophetic majesty. 

•' The dead ! — and deem'st thou they retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ? 
Of guilt incurred in days gone by, 
Aught but the fearful penalty ? 
And say'sc thou, mortal! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone ? 
There halh been blood — by Him 'twas shed 
To expiate every crime who bled ; 
The abs.olving God, who died to save, 
And rose in victory from the grave ! 
And by that stainless offering given 
Alike for all on earth to heaven ; 
By that inevitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and power. 
And each departing passion's force 
Concentrate all in late remorse ; 
And by the day when doom shall be 
Passed on earth's millions, and en thee — 
The doom that shall not be repealed. 
Once uttered, and forever sealed — 
I summon thee, O child of clay ! 
To cast thy darker thoughts away, 
And meet thy foes in peace and love. 
As thou wouldst join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing. 
O, not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise ! 
He yields : devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence. 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skies. 
Each evil passion's sacrifice. 

Tnen tears from warriors' eyes were, flow- 
ing. 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing ; 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, 
And ardent throngs in transport meeting ; 
And eager footsteps forward, pressing, 
4nd accents loud in joyous lji've«i''.g ; 
20 



And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace ! " 

Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away, 
And the rich orient burns with day ; 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 
Rises the choral hymn of earth — 
Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 

Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep ; 
The seaman hears them on the deep — 
So mellowed by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream. 
But not on mortal car alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone ; 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy, to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD 
CCEUR DE LION. 

[" Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when 
thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) " if we believe 
the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance 
of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive 
enemies ; and both mi:;ht have remained uiiknowu but foi 
the grateful attachment of a Provencal bard, or minstrel 
named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship ana 
tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European 
continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel 
accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, 
where a f)risoner of distinction was confined, and guarded 
with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that 
this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired 
to the place ; but the gates of the castle were shut against 
him, and lie could obtain no information relative to the natiio 
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this ex- 
tremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making 
the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some 
verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself 
partly by Richard ; and to his unspeakable joy, on making 
a pause, he heard it reechoed and continued by the roya. 
captive. — (Hist. Troubadours.) To this disccverj' t.heEng 
lish monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.' 
— See Russell's Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 

The Troubadour o'er many a plain 

Hath roamed unwearied, but in vain. 

O'er many a rugged mountain scene 

And forest wild his track hath been : 

Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 

He hath sung the songs of chivalry ; 

His voice hath swelled on the Alpine breeze, 

And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 

From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave. 

He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave 

And yet, if still on earth thou art. 

Monarch of the lion heart 1 



154 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The faithful spirit, which distress 
But heij^htens to dcvotedness, 
By toil and trial vanquished not, 
Rhall guide thy miustrol to the spot. 

He hath reached a mountain hung with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine : 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown -n unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their asjjcct of sullen state — 
No heimet hangs o'er the massy gate ' 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest. 
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
^V'ould chase the gloom of the haughty pile, 
That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on high, 
Like a thunder cloud in a summer sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of song 
A while may speed the hours along ; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, 
Or the wild huntsman's bugle blast, 
When his phantom train are hurrying past.' 
The weary minstrel paused — Ids eye 
Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 
Within the length' ning shadow, cast 
By the I'ortress towers and ramparts vast, 
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around 
Sublime in savage grandeur frowned ; 
Proud guardians of the regal flood. 
In giant strength the mountains stood — 
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven. 
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. 
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 
But the Rhine all shadowy rolled below. 
In purple tints the vineyards smiled. 
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent's bell 
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell ; 



1 It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on 
a caEtIo, as n tiikeii that strangers were invited to enter, and 
fartakeof liosjiitality. So in the romance of" Perceforest," 
"ilM fasoient inettre au phis hanlt de leur hnstel un heaulme, 
•n sigiie que tons les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes en- 
ttassent hardinient en leur hostel comme en leur propre." 

* Popular tridition has made several mountains in Ger- 
many the haunt of the wild Jager, or supernatural hunts- 
man. The superstitious talcs relating to the Unterburg are 
recorded in Eustace's Clojisical Tour ; and it is still believed 
in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of 
Eodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the 
approach of war hy traversing the air with a noisy armament 
to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. — See the " Manuel 
four Ut Veyageurs sur le Rhin," and "Autumn on the 



But all was lonely, silent, rude, 
A stern,'yct glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The troubadour's wild song is waking. 
Full oft that song in days gone by 
Hath cheered the sons of chivalry. 
It hath swelled o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learned its tone ; 
On the Great Plain •* its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 
'Twas loved by the Lion Heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 



THE TROUBADOUR S SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The Soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips professed, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine. 
Cast down the red cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood. 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and 
flood, 

And think' st thou I fear to die ? 

"I have stood where thousands, by Salem'i 
towers. 

Have fallen for the Name Divine ; 
And the faith that cheered t/ieir closing Lcur» 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of hta'ch, 
And the glow of youth's fresh Lkom? 



3 The Plain of Esdraelon, called by T/av ri e-ni.ience thf 
" Great Plain ; " in Scripture, and <.,sjw/ip/e, the '■ field of 
Megiddo," the " Galiliean Plain." 7.h;s 'ilain, the rjost 
fertile part of all the land of Car.a?ji h us jeon the scrno of 
many a memorable contest in Ih'/ ftr'i r.ges of Jewish his- 
tory, as well as during the F.or.ia.i empire, the Crusades, 
and even in later times. If hz.rf ueon a chosen place for en 
campment in every contes', cuer.eil en in this country, fron 
the days of Nabuchodopos /r, King of the Assyrians, inti* 
the disastrous march of P.dr/i?parte from Efiypt into Syria 
Warriors out of " evcrj r..it'.on which is under heaven ♦ 
have pitched their toitU -jpon the Plain of E-«draeIon, ana 
have beheld the vr.icat banners of their nations wet witk 
the dews of Hwut.^ aud Thabor. — Dr. Clarke'a IVtetU. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



156 



Thou art offered life, and pomp, and wealth, 
Or torture and the tomb." 

"I have been where the crown of thorns was 
twined 

For a dying Savior's brow ; 
He spurned the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now ! " 

• Art thou the son of a noble line 

In a land that is fair and blest ? 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine 

Again on its shores to rest ? 

" Thine own is the choice to hfdl once more 

The soil of thy father's birth, 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs aie o'er, 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" O, fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies, 

There's a brighter clime above ! " 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

•' Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Voung Christian ! left to deplore thy fall. 

With sorrow deep and vain ? " 

"There are hearts that still, through all the 
past. 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier 

Thau th apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved when here 

Shall meet to love again." 

'Tis he ! thy prince — long sought, long lost. 
The leader of the red-cross host ! 
Tis he ! — to none thy joy betray, 
Youi'o; Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave. 
The gem on the bosom of the wave ; 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil 
To win their Lion from the toil. 
And free the wassail cup shall flow, 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 

1 *' This precious jst-ie set in the sea." — Richard Jl. 



The festal board shall be richly crowned. 
While knights and chieftains revel round, 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring. 
When merry England hails her khig. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 

[" La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mctfre line ferine ni 4 
sea mallieiirs, ni aiix vengeances du roi, (Charles d'Aiijou.) 
L'aniour du peuple pour I'herltier legitime du rrone avoH 
delate d'une maniere effrayante ; il pouvcit causer de nou- 
velles revolutions, si Conradin deiiieuroit en vie ; el Cliarles, 
revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute des f'ornies de la justice, 
resolut de faire perir sur rechafaud le dernier rejeton de la 
Maison de Souabe, I'unique esperance de son parti. Un 
seul juge Provencal et sujet de Charles, dont les liistoriena 
n'ont pas voulu conserver le noni, osa voter pour la mort, 
d'autresserenfennerent dans un tiniide et coupal)le silence; 
et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par 
Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royauine, la sentence do 
inert contre Conradin et tons ses conipagnons. Cctte sen- 
tence fut coinmuniquee k Conradin, Cdiiune il jouoif aiiz 
echecs ; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se pre[)arer dk 
son execution, et le 26 d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous 
ses amis, sur la Place du Marche de Naples, le long du 
rivage de la mer. Charles etoit present, avec toute sa cour, 
et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi 
condamne. Conradin etoit entre les mains des bourreaux; 
il detacha lui-menie son nianteau, et s'etaiit mis a genoux 
pour prier, il se releva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, (juelle 
profonde douleur te causera la nnuvelle qu'on va te porter 
de moi! ' Puisil tournales yeux sur la foule cpii I'entouroit; 
il vit les larines, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, 
detachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage 
d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. 
Apres lui, sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit tranchei la 
tfete au Due d'Autriche, aux Cointes Gualf'erano et Uarto- 
lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Doiio- 
ratico de Pise. Par un rafinement de cruaute, Charles voiilut 
que le premier, fils du second, preced^t sou pere, et mourtlt 
entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres ses ordres, fureut 
exclus d'une terresainte,et inhumes sans poinpe sur le rivage 
de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite hatir sur 
le meme lieu une egiise de Carmelites, coinme pourapiiaisel 
ces ombres irritees." — Sismondi's Hepubiqaes Italiennes.] 

No cloud to dim the splendor of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay. 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charmed the great of yoro — 
Th' imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade, 
That race is gone — but glorious Nature hero 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires passed away. 

The beam of heaven expands — its kindJing 
smile 
Keveals each charm of many a fairy isle. 



r' 



156 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Whose image floats, in softer coloring dressed, 
With all iRi rocks and vines, on ocean's breast. 
Misenum's capo hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 
With idl Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Vigil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrowed and dark with many a lava streak. 

O, yc bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Rich with all nature's and all fiction's hues, 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet erred to paint Elysium there ? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps those siren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
"What though his dust be scattered, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,' 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around, 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground ; 
His lays are murmured in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange groves : 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and 

sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witnessed many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath 

borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return.'' 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail. 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.^ 

1 The iirn supposed to Iiave contained the ashes of Virgil 
b&8 loni since been lost. 

2 Many Konians of exalted rank were formerly banished 
to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the 
coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined 
many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter 
Agrippina, the « idow of Germanicus, afterwards died in 
txile on the same desolate spot 

8 <' Quehjues sou venirs du coeur, qiielques noms de femmes, 
riclainent aussi vos pleurs. C'est 4 Misene, dans le lieu 
kiSme oil nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompfee Cornelia 
eonsetA'a jusqu'^ la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura 



And th|ere, of old, the dread mysterious moan 
Swelled from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.* 

Passed are those ages — yet another crime. 
Another woe, must stain the Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimsoned ere the daj- is o'er ! 
There is a throne in rejral pomp arrayed, — 
A scene of death from thence must be surveyed 
Marked ye the rushing tlu-ongs ? — each mien 

is pale. 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale : 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast. 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed ; 
The burning tear a while must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Proven9aL', and with 
mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,* 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
Behold the conqueror ! Vainly in his lace 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath leiiJ 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament : 
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there. 
May read at once her sentence — to despair ! 



long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords : un jour, le m6mo 
assassin qui lui ravit son epoiix la tmuva digne de le suivre. 
L'ile de Nisida fut tenioin des adieux de Brutus et de 
Porcie." — Madame de Stael, Curinne. 

* The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime 
had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors, 
besides, there were some who imagined they lieard horrid 
shrieks and cries from Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful 
sound of trumpets from the neighboring cliffs and hills 
Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew 
to Naples. — See Ancient Universal IJintory. 

5 " Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, " fut sage et prudent 
dans les conseils, preux dans les amies, Slpre et forte redout6 
de tons les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensees 
qui l'6galoient aux plus grandes enterprises ; inebranlable 
dans I'adversite, ferme et fidele dans toutes ses proniesses, 
parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ni riant presque jamuis, 
decent comme un religieux, z616 catholiqiie, Slpre A rendre 
justice, feroce dans ses regards. Sa taille 6toit grande et 
nerveuse, sa couleur olivitre, son nez fort grand. 11 parois- 
soit plus faitqu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale 
II ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux 
mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gen.s do cour." — Sishoicdi, 
Ripubliques Italiennes, vol. iii. 



THE DEATH OF COXRADIN. 



151 



But thou, fair boy, the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye. 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath gro^\Ti too full for utterance — Can it be ! 
And is this pomp of death prepared for theef 
Young, royal Conradin ! who shouldst have 

known . 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
O, who can view thee in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, arrayed so richly for the tomb. 
Nor feci, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tj'ranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, 
Crowned with all flowers that heaven on earth 

can shed, 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied ? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along. 
As on the captive moves ; the only sound. 
To break that calm so fearfully profound. 
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave. 
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
[s passing to his fate : the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, 

on him. 
He mounts the scaffold - d»th his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver ' doth his cheek turn 

pale ? 
O, it may be forgiven him if a thought 
Cling to that world, for hini with beauty fraught. 
To all the hopes that promised glory's meed. 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If, in his life's young dayspring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows,. 
One human fear convulse his parting breath. 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow : that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majestj'. 
He kneels — but not to man ; his heart shall 

own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour ? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan. 
May speak of hope — when hope on earth is 

gone? 



That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hate 

given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heavet? 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky. 
Life all around him glows — and he must die ? 
Yet 'midst his people, undismayed, he throw! 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance that, like their own volcano's fire. 
May sleep suppressed a while — but not expire 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, 
When thy lost child is gone ? " — that thought 

can thrQl 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall stilL 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet from the blood which flows that shore to 

stain, 
A voice shall cry to Heaven — and not in vain 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou — but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed, the throngs de- 
part, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes. 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies 
vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave ; 
Marked by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonored, unadorned — but unforgot ; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shali 

live. 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away 
A bark hath anchored in the unruffled bay : 
Thence on the beach descends a female form,' 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek. 
And her soft eyes a chastened heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what wei-e all the past ! 
She sank not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, 



1 " The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody 
catastrojile of those royal youths?, Conradin and Frederick of 
Aiistria, butchered before its door. Wlienever I traversed 
that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their picmatura 
fate, and at the deep distress o*" Conradin's motner, who, 
landing on the beach with her son's ransom, found only i 
lifeless trunk to redeem frrn the fangs of his barbarous con' 
queror." - Swinburne'.^ Travels in the Two Sicilies. 



.58 



THE SCEPTIC. 



While one bright hope remained — who now 

shall teU 
Th' uncrowned, the widowed, how her loved 

one lull ? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, 
The mother came — and she hath found his 

grave ! 
And by thatgiavo, transfixed in speechless grief. 
Whose deathlike trance denies a tear's relief, 
A while sjie kneels ; till roused at length to know, 
To fed the might, the fulness of her woe. 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard — " My Couradin ! my 

child ! " 

EXTHACTS FROM COXTEMPORARV REVIEWS. 

Qunrterhj Review. — " 'Tales and Historic Scenes' is a 
collection, as llio title imports, of narrative pucins. Perhaps 
it was imt on ccmsiileratiun that .Mrs. Heaians passed from 
a pmin iifiiirtiire-diawing and reflection to tlie writing of 
tales ; hill if wc were to prescribe to a young poet his course 
of practice, this would certainly he our advice. The lux- 
uriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the 
quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judg- 
ments, — in the one riclmess, in the other antithe:.is and 
effei'l, are too often more sought after than truth : the poem 
is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But 
in narration more care must be taken : if the tale be fic- 
titious, the conception and sustaininent of tlie characters, 
the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by 
description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful 
studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from 
history, a more delicate task is added to those just men- 
tioned, ill deti rniining how far it may be necessary, or safe, 
to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork 
of truth, anil in skilfully performing that diflicult task. In 
both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained 
effort, and acipiiics thereby greater vigor, and a more prac- 
tical readiness in the detail of the art. 

"The principal |ioem in this volume is The Ahencerrage. 
It coniineinnrates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and 
Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge 
jpf Hainet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced 
to tiini his arms agninst his countrymen the .Moors, in order 
10 procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father 
ind brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night 
lo the bower of Zayda, liis beloved, the daughter of a rival 



and hated family. F^er character is very finely drawn ; aiid 
she repels wiili firmness all the solicitation- iiid prayers of 
the traitor to his country. The following lines torm part of 
their dialogue, — they are spirited and patJictic, but perfectly 
free from exaggeration : — 

"' O, wevt thou still what onco I fondly deemed,'" etc 

Edinburgh Muvthhj Review. — " The more we become ac- 
quainted with Mrs. Ilemans as a poet, the more W3 are de- 
lighted with her productions, and a.stonishcd by her powew 
She will, she must, take iicr place among eminent poets. Ii 
she lias a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna I aillie ; but, oven 
compared with the living masters of the lyre, slie is entitled 
to a verj' high distinction. . . . , 

" Mrs. Ilemans manifests, in her own fine iiiiagination, a 
fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some 
very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it 
impossible that she can write by mere rule, more than on 
credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It 
is by inspiration — as it is poetically called — by a fine tact 
of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she 
pours forth her enchanting song and ' builds her lofty rhyme.' 
The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on eacli 
element of her composition its due share of fancy and of 
feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With 
an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite 
sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations ; with a rich 
and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a 
sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of mag 
nanimity ; while she melts into tenderness \\ ith a grace ir 
which she has few equals. 

" It appears to us that Mrs. Hemans has yielded her owr 
to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle ol 
tales." 

Constable's Magazine. — " The Ahencerrage is a romance 
the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantlj 
period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of 
romance was most powerful, and lingered longest — in the 
kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was fir» 

established, and had the greatest continuance 

The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, 
and with these the fate and sufferings of tlie unfortunat* 
lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of tho 

descriptions here is exquisite Choice is 

bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted 
to extract from Tho Ahencerrage. 

" If any reader considers our strictures tedious,' and om 
extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing 
justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so ni ich private 
worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of thit 
nature." 



THE SCEPTIC.^ 

* I.eur misrn, qu^l8 prcnncnt pour guide, ne presente a leur esprit que des conjectures ct des embarras ; les absnrditet 
oil ils toinbcnt en niant la Religion dcvicnnent plus insoutenablce que les verites doiit la hauteur les etoniie ; et pour ne 
vouloirpascnlredesmystiTesineomprehensibles.ilssuiventrune apresrautred'inconiprehensiblcserreurs."— Bossuet. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
flas learned to dare the splendor of the sky, 

I " The p«em of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one 

tl wliich her revered friend * took a peculiar nterest. It 

• Dr Luxmoore, Biekop of St. Asaph. 



And leave the Alps beneath him in his couraw, 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source ; 

had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but fte 
declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advanta 
geoua to her to pay this compliment to Mr. Gifford, ivitk 



THE SCEPTIC. 



1S9 



Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Which far below, with evanescent fire, 
Shines to delude and dazzles to expire ? 
No ! still through clouds he wins his upward 

way. 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze 
The dayspring from on high hath poured its 

blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam 
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous 

gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith 
To the deep valley of the shades of death ? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given. 
For the high birthright of its hope in heaven ? 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy. 
What yet remains ? — a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden? — might a seraph guest 
Still 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest ? 
[s all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 

whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and 
who entered very warmly into her literary undertakings, 
discussing them with tlie kindness of an old friend, and de- 
siring iier til conlmand frankly wnatever assistance hia ad- 
vice or experience could afford. Mrs. Hemans, in tlie first 
instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the 
altered dedication ; but was afterwards deterred from putting 
it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a 
manceuvre to propitiate the good graces of the Quari.erlij 
Review ; and from the slightest approach to any such mode 
of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost 

Eistidious delicacy." Memoir, p. 31. 

" One of the first notices of Tlie Sceptic appeared in the 
Edivbarirk Mo:.tklij Maircni-^e ; and there is something in its 
tone .so far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the 
game time so [iropbotic of tlie happy influence her writings 
were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the con- 
cluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of 
this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the 
reviewer thus proceeds : ' These extracts must, we think, 
convey to every reader a favorable impression of the talents 
of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which 
ber high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we 
fmagine, of seme of the most popular writers of the day, that 
they are not sufliciently attentive to the moral dignity of 
their performances ; it is the deep, and will be the lasting 
reproach of others, that in this point of view they have 
wantonly sough: and realized the most profound literary 
abasement. With the promise of talents not inferior to any, 
ind far superior to most of them, the author before us is not 
Biiy free froT. every stain, but breathes all moral beauty and 
Viveliness ; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the 
ira of a woman's swav in literature shall bfcome coeval 



And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base ? 

Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng 
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song. 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine cup high, 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well — thine eye is yet undimmed by time. 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, 
And in the glory of thy strength rejoice ! 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief 

hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from 

toil. 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must 

fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling 

Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared 
Proud child of reason ! how art thou prepared if 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have 

bowed. 
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, 

with the return of its moral purity and elevation.' From 
suffrages such as these, Mrs. Hemans derived not merely 
present gratification, but encouragement and cheer for hei 
onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the as- 
surances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of 
having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, ad 
ministered balm to the feeling* of the sorriiwful, or taught 
the desponding where to look for couifort. In a letter writ- 
ten at this time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of 
the heaviest of human calamities — the loss of an exemplary 
mother — she thus describes her own appreciation of such 
heart tributes : ' It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know 
that you should find any thing I have written at all adapted 
to your present feelings, and that The Sceptic should have 
been one of the last books upon which the eyes, now opened 
upon brighter scenes, were cast. Perhaps, when your mind 
is sufficiently composed, you will inform me which were 
the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure 
and pious mind : they will be far more highly valued by me 
than any thing I have ever written.' — fbid. p. 334. 

" It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs, 
Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sen' her a copy 
of The Sceptic : ' I cannot refuse myself the grai<.fication of 
saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs. IIemans'6 
superior genius and refined taste, t rank her, as a poet, 
very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her 
Modern Greece which evinces more just views, or more 
delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad 
she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance, 
on a subject so worthy of it ; and, anticipating the future 
by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the peru- 
sal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, hut benefit.' '•' 
— Ibid. 



160 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain 
With the blight images of pleasure's train ? 

Yes ! as the sight of some far-distant shore, 
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread 

no more, 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathomed 

g-ave I 
Shall Iloi)e, the faithful cherub, hear thy call — 
She who, like het;ven's own sunbeams, smiles for 

all? 
Will she speak comfort ? — Thou hast shorn her 

])lume. 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hushed the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore ; 
Thou couklst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free. 
And sheds the dews of heaven on aU but 
thee. 

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left ; 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's 

hour, 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head, 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home 

above. 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest 
Within that hallowed shrine, a parent's breast ; 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol, destined but to die ; 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 
Where severed souls, made perfect, reunite ? 
Then tremble I cling to every passing joy. 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear, 
Still let "forever" vibrate on thine ear ! 
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown. 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis 

gone ! 

Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the loadstar of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 



Gaze op a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy 

trust. 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, 
Think on that dread "forever " — and despair ! 

And O ! no strange, unwonted storm thci« 

needs 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious 

eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky. 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, 
And the bark sink when peace and sunshine 

sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! 
Yes ! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer air with latent power, 
He hides his venom in the scented flower. 
He steals upon thee in the zephyr's breath, 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou tke7i, who thus didst rashly 
cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast. 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, 
It wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell, 
Become a desert noio, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadowed A\'ith the midnight of the tomb ? 
Where shalt thou turn ? It is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm, confiding gaze — 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; 
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is pressed, 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest. 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the gate of life to close, 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows ? 
That fount unsealed, whose boundless wavei 

embrace 
Each distant isle, and visit every race. 
Pours from the throne of God its current free 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to th&e 



THE SCEPTIC. 



161 



O, -while the doom impends, not yet decreed, 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead — 
While still, suspended bj' a single hair, 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the 

air, 
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 
Patient, because Eternal,' He may hear 
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening Spirit from above, 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through his name alone. 
To whtjae imequalled sorrows none was shown ; 
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God ; 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Hmi ! for he, in human form, 
Hath walked the waves of Ufe, and stUled the 

storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last — 
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch poured 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live. 
Taught from his Cross tLo lesson — to forgive ! 

Call thou on Him ! His prayer e'er then arose, 
Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. 
And haste ! — ere bursts the lightning from on 

high. 
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, liy ! " 
So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away. 
And sheathe his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet mxLit long days roll on, ere peace shall 

brood. 
As the soft halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed 
Inspiring irfluence o'er thy fallen head. 
■ — He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the 

shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made, 
Throu gh lingering years — if called at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free, 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, 
F.ainting at day, and blasted by the sun. 

1 "He is patient because lie is eternal." — St. Augcs- 

TIKE. 

s " Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge 
for you ; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any 
peison at unawares. — And they shall be unto you cities of 
ret!i%e from the avenger." — JVumbers, chap. xxxv. 
21 



Thus, when the captive soul hatn long re- 
mained 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chained. 
If the Deliverer, in his might at last. 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight. 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away : that spark of mind 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined. 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray. 
Born to be fostered with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o'er thea 

passed. 
On wing of flame, the purifying blast. 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, 
Like Sinai's trumpet, called thee to thy God 1 

But hop'st thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ' 
In thine own strength unaided to defy, 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? 
Torn by the vulture, fettered to the rock. 
Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas ! the" tower that crests the mountain's brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below. 
Yet not the less be shattered on its height 
By one dread moment of the earthquake's migl ts 
A thousand jDangs thy bosom may have borne. 
In silent fortitude or haughty scorn. 
Till comes the one, the master anguish, sent 
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent 

O, what is nature's strength? The vacan* 
eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ' 
The wild delirious laughter of despai . 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer then> 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pala 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way. 
In the mid darkness of the stormy wave 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains 
Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — moul- 
dering fanes. 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own : 
Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind, 
Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no mor« i 



;62 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shattered temple of the soul, 
Curtained with midnight ? Low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imagery ; ' 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare. 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust ! but ransomed of the skies ' 
One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies \ 
Haste, ere the l\our of doom — draw nigh to Ilim 
Who dwells above, between the cherubim ! " 

Spirit dethroned ! and checked in mid career — 
Son of the morning ! exiled from thy sphere, 
Tell us thy tale ! Perchance thy race was run 
With science in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep. 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep. 
And search the laws thnt nature's springs control. 
There tracing all — save Him who guides the 
whole ! 

r£aply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
from the far beacon lights of ages fled, 
The depths of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanished race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swelled on 

high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony ; 
While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at th' electric sound ? 

Lord of th' ascendant ! what avails it now. 
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow ? 
What though thy name, through distant empires 

heard. 
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle word ? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky. 
To make the secrets of all ages thine, 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway ? — hath thy 

mind 
Severed its lone dominions from mankind. 
For this to woo their homage ! Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught. 



1 " Every man in the chambers of his imagery." — F.iekiel, 
ehap. viiL 



Won e-\^pry wreath — but that which will not die^ 

Nor aught neglected — save eternity ! 

And did all fail thee in the hour of wiath. 
When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy nath 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
O spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men. 
With an immortal's courage, to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly pain ? 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to haTf saved 
When the loud fury of the billow ravcLl ; 

But him thou knevv'st not — and the lighi tie lent 
Hath vanished from its ruined tenement. 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ! 

— Lift the dread veil no further ! Hide, O, hit»* 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! 

The dagger, grasped in death — the broAV, tv i 

eye. 
Lifeless, yet stamped with rage and agony ; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died — " and made ^ 

sign ! " 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fevered b» iH 
Too deep that image of despair retain. 
Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour 
Let not such visions claim unhallowed pow»*. 
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th' Atoher's 

love ! 

O Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou 

whose ways, 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze. 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, 
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, 
And countless ages, trampling into clay 
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered ! — 

Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal now. 
Who know'st no past nor future — Thou whose 

breath 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death ' 
Look on us ! guide us ! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? 
A thousand rocks, deep hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 
A breeze may Avaft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A treacherous song allure us — and we sink ! 

O, by His love, who, veiling Godhead's iighl 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And heaven and earth disdained not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity ; 



THE SCEFliu. 



16. 



bnmoital tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere fie raised them, went above the dead : 
Save, or we perish ! Let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that uDJverse — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passK' a ; speak once more 
The mighty mandate, iju^'^ of every shore, 
'♦ Here shall thy waves he t-tayed ; " in grief, in 

pain, 
The fearful poise ot reason's sphere maintain. 
Thou, by whom sun-s ^r<j balanced ! thus secure 
in Thee shall faith ind fortitude endure ; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust. 
And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, 
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be 

Thine. 

And O, be near when, clothed with conquer- 
ing power. 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour : 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, 
Awe- struck alike the timid and the brave, 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink the cup of trembling ' — when we see 
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ! If still, when life was young. 
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung. 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past. 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not ! When tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge — 
When from thy justice to thy love we fly. 
On nature's conflict look with pitying eye ; 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake 

cease, 
Come in the " small still voice," and whisper — 
Peace ! " 

For O, 'tis awiul ! He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repelled, 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union formed and closed in woe. 
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 

1 " Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, 
Bid wrung them out." — Isaiah, chap. li. 

2 " And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and 
strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the 
rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind : 
and after the wind an earthquake ; but the Lord was not in 
the earthquake : and after the earthquake a fire ; but the 
Lord was not in the fire : and after the fire a still small 
^oic« " — Kings, book i chap xix 



We talk of Death as something which 'twer€ 

sweet 
In glory's arms exultingly to meet — 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 
As, undismayed amidst the tears of all. 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 

— Hush, fond enthusiast ! Still, obscure, and 

lone. 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 
Is the last hour of thousands : they retire 
From life's thronged path, unnoticed to expire. 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares. 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom ; and, ere an hour be flown, 

— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine 

own. 

But, as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought ol 

fear, 
A thrilling thought which, haply mocked before, 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more ! 
There are who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng 
That join the masque of revelrj' and song : 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored. 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board ; 
And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean 

brood. 
And the heart owns the might of solitude. 
Is its low whisper heard ! — a note profound, 
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead re- 
pose 
Of some proud city, stormed by midnight foes ! 

O, vainly Reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life had nought to claim such lingering love, 
And ask if e'er the captive, half unchained. 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrained. 
In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride. 
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, 
Call up the countless armies of the dead, 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 
And say — " What wouldst thou ? Shall tin 

fixed decree. 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee ? " 
Poor, feeble aid ! Proud Stoic ! ask not why — 
It is enough that nature shrinks to die. 
Enough, that horror, which thy words u^ibraid 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined 
And mystic questions of the partin ► mind. 



164 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Half checked, half uttered : tell her what shall 

burst, 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, 
When freed from mortal films — what viewless 

world 
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurled — 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried ; 
Say if at once, her final doom to hear. 
Before her God the trembler must appear. 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and 

earth shall flee ? 

Hast thou no answer ? Then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrink ; yet cease not to ex- 
plore 
Th' unkno-wn, th' unseen, the future — though 

the heart, 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start ; 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh. 
They have their source in immortality ! 
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's 

aid denies. 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise ? 
When, on the swift pale horse^ whose lightning 

pace, 
WTiere'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, 
The mighty rider comes — 0, whence shall aid 
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismayed ? 
Whence, but from thee, Messiah! — thou hast 

drained 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remained ; 
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, 
The mystic horror — all became tliine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succor bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting ? 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power ? 
No, Son of God ! upon thy sacred head 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Passed through the strait of fiercest agony : 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice ! 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the 

tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fied the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. 
Break forth in joy, ye ransomed ! saith your God; 
Swell )'e the raptures of the song afar, 
AJid hail with harps your bright and Morning 

Star. 



^ 

He rose ! the everlasting gates of day 
Received the King of Glory on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept. 
And the first fruits of them in Him that slept; 
He rose, he triumphed ! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoicfc 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend 
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend. 
He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless storev 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart. 
Called to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left ' 
But for the vision of the days to be, 
But for the Comforter despised by thee, 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast. 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath passed, 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey 
Hath called our fairest and our best away ? 
Should we not madden when our ej'cs behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 
No more responsive to our smile or sigh. 
Fixed — frozen — silent — all mortality ? 
But for the promise, " All shall yet be well," 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel 
Beneath such clouds as darkened when the hand 
Of M'rath lay heavy on our jirostrate land ; 
And thou,' just lent thy gladdened isles to bless, 
Then snatched from earth with all thy loveliness. 
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 
O England's flower ! wcrt gathered to the dead ? 
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart 
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 
W^hen fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled. 
When thy young bosom o'er thy lifeless child 
Yearned with vain longing — still thy patient eye 
To its last light beamed holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last. 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in ropose ; 
While bowed thy royal head to Him whose 

power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 

1 The Princess Charlotte. 



THE SCEPTIC 



166 



Who from the brightest vision of a throne, 
Love, glory, empire, claimed thee for his own. 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
AkS blasted Israel when her ark was lost ! 

" It is the will of God ! " — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career ; 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought — " It is the will of God ! " 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
O, still, though vanishing without a trace. 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, 
Hallowed by freedom and enshrined in song ! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit rlwell 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care. 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm-presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height,' 
And o'er the mountains rear with patriot might, 
Prepared,- if summoned, in its cause to die. 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory ! 
By this hath England conquered. Field and flood 
Have owned her sovereignty : alone she stood. 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown, 
m high and holy singleness, alone. 
But mighty in her God — and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow ? 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn, 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn ? 
No ! severed land, 'midst rocks and billows rude, 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude, 
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 
Shall the- pure elements of greatness rest, 
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers. 
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers ! 

Still where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes 
That guard the peasant's records and remains. 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath bell 
Bweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell. 
And from each cottage dwelling of thy glades. 
When starlight glimmers through the deepen- 
ing shades, 
Devotiin's voice in choral hymns arise. 
And bear the land's warm incense to the skies. 

» " And set up a sign of fire." — Jeremiah, chap. vi. 



There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy. 
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards in inspiration's days, 
When angels, whispering through the cedai 

shade. 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp conveyed ; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, 
Tell of His name who left his throne on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, 
His love divine by keenest anguish tried. 
And fondly say " My child, for thee He died ! ' 



[What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thir- 
teen years after the publication of The Sceptic, and when 
the author, towards the termination of her earthly career, 
was residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance oc- 
curred by which Mrs. Hemans was greatly affected and im- 
pressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and begged 
earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one 
of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits 
of all but her immediate friends. The applicant was there- 
fore told that she was unable to receive him ; but he persisted 
in entreating for a few minutes' audience, with such earnest 
importunity, that at last the point was conceded. The mo- 
ment he was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner 
and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and 
tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was 
to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest 
satisfied without avowing — that to her he owed, in the first 
instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more 
precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her 
poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the 
miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to "search the 
Scriptures." Having poured forth his thanks and benedic- 
tions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but 
interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her over 
whelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and won 
dering humility. — Memoir, pp. 255, 256.] 

CRITICAL EXTKACTS FEOM REVIEWS. 

JVorth American Review. — " In 1820 Mrs. Hemans pub- 
lished The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its 
sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She con- 
siders the influence of unbelief on the afiections and gentler 
part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the 
misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may be 
found in the thoughts that have tlieir source in immortality. 
Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, sli* 
turns to the sterner tasks of life : — 

' E'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man.' 

But then the sceptic has no relief in memory ; for memory 
recalls no joys but such as were trans 'tory, and kncwn tolM 
such ; and as for hope, — 

She, who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all, 
Will she speak comfort ? — Thou hast shorn her plomai 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hushed the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown • 



(6(1 



THE SCEPTIC. 



" The |)oet then asks, if an infidel dare love ; and, having 

00 lioino for liis tiiotiglits in a better world, nurse such feel- 
ings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a 
Jiarent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attach- 
Bient to a vain idol, from which death may at any time 

divide him 'forever.' For relief tiio inlidel is 

referred lo the Christian religion, in a strain which unites 

the fervor of devotion with |)oetic sensibility 

The poem proceeds to depict in a forcible manner the unfor- 

iinate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowl- 
"dge but that which gives salvation ; and, having pained 
possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed witli the 
majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects 
nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, 
finds relief in suiciile, and escapes to death as to an eternal 
rest. The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, 
and calls firtli a fervent prayer for the divine presence and 
support in the hour of dissolution ; for the hour when the 
soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another lite is an 
'awful one.' .... This is followed by an allusion to 
the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and 
the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind 
muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic 
t|uestions that it cannot solve. But through the influence of 
religion, — 

' He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Thau morn one dewdrop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart. 
Called to the hope of glory, shall depart.' 

' After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriot- 
ism, in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, 
the poem dloses with the picture of a mother teaching her 
child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine 
example of the Savior. 

" We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for 
t illustrates the character of Mrs. Hemans's manner. We 
perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, 
sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, 
a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, 
gratifications, and sorrows of social life." — Professor 
Norton. 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — "We have on more than 
one .iccasion expressed the verj' high opinion which we en- 
tertain of the talents of this lady ; and it is gratifying to find 
thy she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree 
the ipplause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibi- 
tion of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon 
our admiration. Mrs. Hemans is indeed but in the infancy 
of her pnetical career ; but it is an infancy of unrivalled 
heauty and of very high promise. Not but that she has al- 
Nady iKjrformed more than has often been sufficient to win 
for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but 
because what she has already done shrinks, when compared 
with what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere 
incipient excellence — the intimation, rather than the fulfil- 
ment, of the high destiny of her genius. 

. . . . "The verses of Mrs. Hemans appear the spon- 
ameous ofT-ipring of intense and noble feeling, governed by 

1 cUar understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an ex- 



quisite delrcacy and precision of taste. With more than th« 
forcoof many of her masculine competitors, she never ceasei 
to be strictly feminine in the whole current of her thought 
and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of that 
free anrl intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness 
is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some 
of the most remarkable among tlie female litf-iii of our time* 
have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem 
before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have 
been very difficult to have reconciled the treatment in tho 
hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belongs 
to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form 
its linest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the 
exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by 
the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, 
by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and 
by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its 
attractions, and wrapped in darkness and defiance. But Mrs. 
Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, 

'while she has ;»''• '^ the poem before us every trace of vig- 
orous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far 
transcended in energy of thought the i)rosing pioneers of 
unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm ani* 
confiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility ol 
hope and of faith has in it none of tho weaknoss with which 
it has been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owns 
a divine and mysterious vigor residing under the very aspect 
of gentleness and devotion." 

Quarterly Review. — " Her last two publications are worta 
of a higher stamp — works, indeed, of which no living poet 
need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled The Seep 

'tic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticii)ate, to 
advocating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem 
must have owed its being to the circumstances of the times 

— to a laudable indignation at the course which literature, 
in many departments, seemed lately to be taking in this 
countr)-, and at the doctrines disseminated with industry, 
principally (but by no means exclusively, as has been falsely 
supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs. Hemans, however, 
does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse, 
few poems, ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have ever 
been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the 
writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in 
poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a the- 
ological treatise in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic 
is one of irresistible force to confirm a wavering mind ; it is 
simply resting the truth of religion on the necessity of it — 
on the utter misery and helplessness of man without it. This 
argument is in itself available for ;ill the purposes of poetry 

— it appeals to the imagination and passions of man ; it is 
capable of interesting all our afTectionate hopes and chari- 
ties, of acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs. Hemans has 
gone through this range with great feeling and ability ; and 
when she comes to the mind which has clothed itself in its 
own strength, and, relying proudly on that alone in the houa 
of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the contest, shf 
rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed : — 

' O, what is nature's strength ? The vacant ej-e, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,' etc." 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



AN UNFINISHED POEM. 



Beings of brighter worlds ! that rise at times 
As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, 
In those brief visions of celestial climes 
Which pass like sunbeams o'er the realms of 

thought, 
Dwell ye around us ? — are ye hovering nigh, 
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air ? 
And in deep solitudes where human eye 
Can trace no step, Immortals ! are ye there ? 
O, who can tell ? — what power, but Death alone, 
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world 

unknown ? 



But earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers 
Of Eden withered, when revealed ye shone 
In all your brightness midst those holy bowers — 
Holy, but not unfading as your own ! 
While He, the child of that primeval soil, 
With you its paths in high communion trod, 
His glory yet undimmed by guilt or toil. 
And beaming in the image of his God, 
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, 
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. 



Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays. 
Mingling their tones, from. nature's temple rose, 
When nought but that majestic song of praise 
Broke on the sanctity of night's repose, 
VV^ith music since unheard : and man might trace 
By stream and vale, in deep, embowering shade. 
Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place, 
I'he footsteps of th' Omnipotent, who made 
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast 
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He passed. 



Short were those days, and soon, O sons of 

Heaven ! 
Your aspect changed for man. In that dread 

hour. 
When from his paradise the alien driven 
Beheld your forms in angry splendor tower, 
Guarding the clime where he no more might 

dwell 
With meteor swords ; he saw the living flame, 



And his first cry of misery was — " Farewell ? 
His heart's first anguish, exile : he became 
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot 
Is still for hapi^ier lands to pine — and reach 
them not. 



Where now the chosen bowers that once be- 
held 
Dehght and Love their first bright sabbath keep ? 
From all its founts the world of waters swelled. 
And wrapped them in the mantle of the 

deep ! 
For He, to whom the elements are slaves. 
In wrath unchained the oceans of the cloud, 
And heaved th' abyss beneath, till waves on 

waves 
Folded creation in their mighty shroud ; 
Then left the earth, a solitude, o'erspread 
With its own awful wrecks — a desert of the 
dead. 



But onward flowed life's busy course again. 
And rolling ages with them bore away — 
As to be lost amidst the boundless main. 
Rich Orient streams their golden sands convey - 
The hallowed lore of old — the guiding light 
Left by tradition to the sons of earth, 
And the blest memory of each sacred rite 
Known in the region of their father's birth. 
When in each breeze around his fair abode 
Whispered a seraph's voice, or lived the breath 
of God. 



Who hath not seen what time the orb of day. 
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's breast, 
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray. 
Catching brief splendor from the purple west ? 
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth ! a while 
With borrowed hues unnumbered phantoms 

shone ; 
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile. 
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, 
Blending her rites with thine — while yet afar 
Thine eye's last radiance beamed, a slow-reced- 
ing star. 



res 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



Yet still one stream was pure — one severed 

shrine 
Was fed -with holier fire, by chosen hands ; 
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, 
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. 
There still the father to his child bequeathed 
The sacred torch of never-dying flame ; 
There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed 
The One adored and everlasting Name ; 
And angel guests would linger and repose 
Where those primeval tents amid their palm 

trees rose. 



But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore 
Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade. 
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore. 
In thrilling whispers to the soul conveyed 
High inspiration : yet in every clime, 
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought 
With beings in their essence more sublime. 
To hold communion of mysterious thought ; 
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, 
And hear in every wind the accents of th' Un- 
seen. 



Ves ! we have need to bid our hopes repose 
On some protecting influence : here confined, 
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes. 
Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. 
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, 
As exiles panting for their native coast, 
Yet lured by every wild-floM'er from their way, 
And shrinking from the gulf that must be 

crossed. 
Death hovers round us : in the zephyr's sigh, 
As in the storm, he comes — and lo ! Eternity ! 



As one left lonely on the desert sands 
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide. 
He gazes as the pathless waste expands — 
Around, beyond, interminably wide ; 
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, 
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky. 
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume 
The glistening Serab ' which illudes his eye : 
Buch was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, 
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread 
Unknown. 

1 Serab, mirage. 



His thoughts explored the past — and wher< 

were they. 
The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone bv * 
He turned — a boundless void before him lay, 
Wrapped in the shadows of futurity. 
How knew the child of nature that the flame 
He felt within him, struggling to ascend. 
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame 
Doomed with the earth on which it moved t« 

blend ? 
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed. 
If 'twere a Father's love or Tyrant's wrath de- 
creed ? 



O, marvel not if then he sought to trace 
In all sublimities of sight and sound. 
In rushing winds that wander through all space, 
Or 'midst deep woods, with holy gloom em- 
browned, 
The oracles of fate ! or if the train 
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, 
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer'l 

brain, 
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, 
Were deemed mysterious revelations, sent 
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread 
element. 



Was not wild nature, in that elder time. 
Clothed with a deeper power ? — earth's wander 

ing race, 
Exploring realms of solitude sublime, 
Not as we see, beheld her awful face ! 
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met 
Their searching eyes : unpeopled kingdoms 

lay 
In savage pomp before them — all was yet 
Silent and vast, but not as in decay ; 
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, 
Looked o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, 

voiceless, lone. 



The forests in their dark luxuriance -wavuii-. 
With all their swell of strange ^olian sound ; 
The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved, 
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. 
Then, brooding o'er the images, impressed 
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, 
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast 
'Midst dim remembrances of infancy, 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



161 



Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, 
Peopling each "wilder haunt of mountains, 
groves, and streams. 



rhen OiOd the victim — then in every shade 
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine ; 
Fear bowed before the phantoms she por- 
trayed. 
And Natui'e teemed with many a mystic sign. 
Meteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose 

course 
E'en yet is awful to th' enlightened eye. 
As, wildly rushing from your secret source, 
Youx sounding chariot sweeps the realms on 

high. 
Then o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, 
And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as 
ye passed. 



uut you, ye stars ! in distant glory burning. 
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky ! 
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning. 
Would pierce the secrets of infinity — 
To you the heart, bereft of other light, 
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains, 
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, 
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns. 
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race 
Of some unnumbered orbs, that light the depths 
of space. 



Shine on ! and brightly plead for erring 

thought, 
Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored 
The wide creation, and beholding nought 
Like your eternal beauty, then adored 
Its living splendors ; deeming them informed 
By natures tempered with a holier fire — 
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warmed, 
Who to the source of spirit might aspire. 
And mortal prayers benignantly convey 
To some presiding Power, more awful far than 

they. 



Guides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you 
The seaman turned, rejoicing at the helm. 
When from the regions of empyreal blue 
Ye poured soft radiance o'er the ocean realm ; 
To you the dweller of the plains addressed 
Vain prayers, that called the clouds and dews 
your own ; 

22 



To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, 
Kindled the fires that far through midnigh.* 

shone. 
As earth would light up all her hills, io vie 
With your immortal host, and image back th« 

sky. 



Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crown 

Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain 

She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, 

As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. 

Earth should be hushed in slumber — but the 

night 
Calls forth her worshippers ; the feast is spread, 
On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height 
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed 
To her, whose beams illume those cedar shades 
Faintly as Nature's light the 'wildered soul per- 
vades. 



But when thijte orb, all earth's rich hues restoring, 
Cr.me forth, sun ! in majesty supreme. 
Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring 
Beauty and life in each triuniphant beam, 
Through thine own East what joyous rites pre« 

vailed ! 
What choral songs reSchoed ! while thy fire 
Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled 
The precious incense of each odorous pyre. 
Heaped with the richest balms of spicy vales, 
And aromatic woods that scent th' Arabian galea 



Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone, 
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strewed 
For the dark children of the burning zone 
Drew frenzy from thy fervors, and bedewed 
With their own blood thy shrine ; while tha*; 

wild scene. 
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel viewed. 
And though with glory mantled, and severe 
In his own fulness of beatitude, 
Yet mourned for those whose spirits from thj 

ray 
Caught not one transient spark of intellectu*.i day 



But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers 
Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies, 
And hold high converse, 'midst his native bowery 
With the once glorious sui» of Paradise, 
Looked ye from heaven in sadness ? were you 
strains 



170 



SUPERS'! mON AND REVELATION. 

\- 



Of cl>(iral praise suspended in dismay, 
When the polluted shrine of Syria's jjlains 
With clouds of incense dimmed the blaze of day ? 
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes, 
While demons hailed the pomp of human sac- 
rifice ? 



And well the powers of evil might rejoice. 
When rose from Tophet's vale th' exulting cry, 
And, deaf to Nature's suppUcating voice, 
The frantic mother bore her child to die ! 
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands 
With sacred instinct : love hath lost its sway, 
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands. 
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. 
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale ! 
Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an 
infant's wail ! 



A voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; 
'Twas not the childless niother. Syrian maids, 
Where with red wave the moimtain streamlet 

flows, 
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. 
With dirge and plaint the cedar groves resoxind, 
Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns : 
Weep for the dead ! Away ! the lost is found — 
To life and love the buried god returns ! 
Then wakes the timbrel — then the forests ring. 
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze's 

wing ! 



But filled with holier joy tb'J Persian stood. 
In silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, 
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood 
Of radiance burst around, above, below — 
Bright, boundless as eternity : he gazed 
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflowed 
Li worship of th' Invisible, and praised 
In thee, Sun ! the symbol and abode 
Of life, and power, and excellence — the throne 
Where dwelt the Unapproached, resplendently 
alone.' 

At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the 
foUowing stanza was here inserted : — 

"Nor rose tlie Magian's hymn, sublimely awelling 

In full-toned homage to the source of flame, 
From fabric reared by man, the gorgeous dwelling 

Of Buch bright idol forms as ait could frame. 
' He reared no temple, bade no walls contain 

The breath of incense or the voice of prayer ; 
But made the boundless universe his fane. 

The rocks his altar stone — adoring there 
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades 
AU deserts and all depths, and hollows loneliest sbadei." 



What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gav* 
Mysterious sanctity to things which wear 
Th' Eternal's impress ? — if the living wave, 
The circling heavens, the free and boundlesa 

air — 
If the pure founts of everlasting flame, 
Deep in his country's hallowed vales enshrined, 
And the bright stars maintained a sUent claim 
To love and homage from his awe- struck mind 
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream 
Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme 

XXVIII. 

And with that faith was conquest. He whosa 

name 
To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung — 
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame 
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, . 
He came, the victor Cyrus ! As he passed. 
Thrones to his footstep rocked, and monarchs lay 
Suppliant and clothed with dust ; while nations 

cast 
Their ancient idols down before his way, 
Who, in majestic march, from shore to shore, 
The quenchless flame revered by Persia's chil- 
dren bore. 



[In the spring of 1820, Mrs. Hemans first made the ac. 
quaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and 
valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in 
death — Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a fre- 
quent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in- 
law, the late Dean of St. Asaph, from whom also, during an 
intercourse of many years, Mrs. Hemans at all times re- 
ceived much kindness and courtesy. Mr. Reginald Heber 
was the first eminent literary character with whom she had 
ever familiarly associated ; and she therefore entered with a 
peculiar freshness of feeling into the delight inspired by h'la 
conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle 
benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the 
very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion,, 
she thus describes her enjoyment : — "I am more delightec 
with Mr. Heber than I can possibly tell you ; his conversa- 
tion is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which 
he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study 
of his life. In short, his society has made much I'le same 
sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivan- 
hoe did ; and was something so perfectly new to me, that I 
can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long con- 
versation with him on the subject of the poem, which he read 
aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner 
was so entirely tliat of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, 
and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opin- 
ions on the subject, even vrhere they did not exactly coincids 
with his own." 

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition 
and Revelation, which Mrs. Hemans had commenced sontt 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 



17) 



time before, and which was intended to embrace a very ex- 
tensive range of subject. Her original design will be best 
given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss 
Park : — "I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we 
discussed togetlier, of a poem on national superstitions. 
' Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,' and in 
the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea oc- 
curred to me, which I hope you will not think me too pre- 
sumptuous in wishing to realize. Might not a poem of some 
extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to 
the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets 
of Paganism with those of Christianity .' It would contain, 
of course, much classical allusion ; and all the graceful and 
sportive fictitms of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the 
superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced 
to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour 
of affliction — or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from 
history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and 
the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the 
soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects 
lor poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions 



which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, suet 
as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain mucb 
that is poetical ; but the subject is almost boundless, and I 
think of it till I am startled by its magnitude." 

Mr. Heber approved highly of tlie plan of tlie work, and 
gave her every encouragement to prcceed in it; suppl3'ing 
her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illus- 
trations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, 
and the sources from whence the requisite information would 
best be derived. But the great labor and research necessary 
to the development of a plan which included the superstitions 
of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries — 
the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of lieaven, alluded 
to in the book of Job — to the still existing rites of the Hin- 
doos — would have demanded a course of study too engross- 
ing to be compatible with the many other claims, both do- 
mestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more 
upon the author's time. The work was, therefore, laid 
aside; and the fragment now first published is all that re- 
mains of it, though the project was never distinctly' 
abandoned.] 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 1 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 

FROM SISMONDl'S " LIITEKATUKE DU MIDI." 

ViNCENZo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is ac- 
knowledged, by the unanimous consent of the 
Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. 
Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is 
always actuated by the impulse of the moment. 
Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthu- 
siastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his 
thoughts — they are present, and clothed with 
life — before him, and a flexible and harmonious 
language is always at his command to paint 
them with the richest coloring. Persuaded that 
poetry is only another species of painting, he 
makes the art of the poet consist in rendering 
apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created 
by his imagination for himself; and he permits 



1 " About this time (1820) Mrs. Hemans was an occasional 
contributor to the Edinburgh Monthltj Magazine, then con- 
ducted by the Rev. Rober' Morehead, whose liberal cour- 
tesy in the discharge of hss editorial office associated many 
agreeable recollections with the period of this literary inter- 
course. Several of her poems appeared in the above-men- 
tioned periodical, as aLo a series of papers on foreign litera- 
ture, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose 
compositions she ever gave to tte world ; and indeed to these 
papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely 
applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordi- 
nate to tlie poetical translations, which it is used to intro- 
iuce ' Memsir, p. 41 



not a verse to escape him which, does not con- 
tain an image. Deeply impressed by the studj 
of Dante, he has restored to the character of 
Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties 
by which it was distinguished at its birth ; and 
he proceeds from one picture to another with a 
grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is 
extraordinary that, with something so lofty in 
his manner and style of writing, the heart of sc 
impassioned a character should not be regulated 
by principles of greater consistency. In many 
other poets, this defect might pass unobserved ; 
but circumstances have thrown the fullest light 
upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as 
a poet is attached to works which display hirn 
in continual opposition to himself. Writing in 
the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he 
has constantly chosen pohtical subjects for hia 
compositions, and he has successively celebrated 
opposite parties in proportion to their success 
Let us suppose, in his justification, that he com 
poses as an improvisatore, and that, his feelings 
becoming highly excited by the given theme, he 
seizes the political ideas it suggests, however 
foreign they may be to his individual senti- 
ments.^ In these political poems — the objec* 

1 The observation of a French author (Le Censeur da Di»- 
tionnaire des Oiroutttes) on the general versatility of poets, 
seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti 
that it might almost be supposed to have been written for tli( 



r 



172 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

\ 



tnd purport of which arc so different — the in- 
vention and manner are, perhaps, but too simi- 
ar. Tlie Basvi/; liana, or poem on the death of 
Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, since its 
appearance, it lias been discovered that Monti, 
who always imitated Ilante, has now also very 
frequently imitated himself. 

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who 
W&3 put to death at Rome by the people, for 
attt-mpting, at the beginning of the Revolution, 
to excite a sedition against the Pontifical gov- 
ernment. Monti, who was then the poet of the 
Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, sup- 
poses that, at the moment of Basville's death, 
he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the 
condemnation which his philosophical principles 
had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, 
and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he 
is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse 
France until the crimes of that country have 
received their due chastisement, and doomed to 
contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to 
which he has contributed by assisting to extend 
the progress of the Revolution. 

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from 
province to province, that he may behold the 
desolation of his lovelj' country. He then con- 
veys him to Paris, and makes him witness the 
Bufferings and death of Louis XVI., and after- 
wards shows him the Allied armies prepared to 
burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her 
king. The poem concludes before the issue of 
the cor.test is known. It is divided into four 
cantos of three hundred lines each, and written 
in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not 
only many expressions, epithets, and lines are 
borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the in- 
vention itself is similar. An angel conducts 
Basville through the suffering world ; and this 
faithful guide, who consoles and supports the 
tpectator hero of the poem, acts precisely the 
game part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. 
Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, ex- 
actly as Dante would hive done. Monti has 
not preserved any traces of his revolutionary 
character — he describes him as feeling more 
pity than remorse — and he seems to forget, in 



express purpose of such an application. " Le cerveau d'un 
poiteest d'lino cire inoUe et flexible, oii s'itnprime naturelle- 
ment tout ce qui le flatte, le seduit, et I'alimente. La muse 
du chant n'a pas de partie ; c'est une etourdie sans conse- 
quence, qui fuiatre egaleinent et sur de riches gazons et sur 
d'arides bruyires. Un pofete en dclire chante indifferemment 
Titus et Thania.sk, Louis 12mc et Cromwell, Christine de 
Buide et Stanchon la Vielleuse." 



thus identifying himself with his hero, that he 
has at first represented Basville, and perhaps 
without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious 
revolutionist. The Basviglianu is, perhaps, mora 
remarkable than any other poem for the majes- 
ty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, 
and the richness of its coloring. In the first 
canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of 
the body : — 

" Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes 
Rest thou in deep and undisturbed repose ; 
Till at the last great day, from slumber's bed, 
Heaven's trumpet summons shall awake the 
dead. 

♦' Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, 
And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour • 
Nor let the wanderer passing o'er thee breathe 
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. 

" Sleep thou in peace ! Beyond the funeral pjTe 
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire ; 
And 'midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore 
Where mercy's home hath been from days of 
yore." 

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried. 
Then turned to follow its celestial guide ; 
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, 
A lingering step, and oft-reverted eye — 
As when a child's reluctant feet obey 
Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play. 

Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast, 
When from th' Eternal City's towers they passed, 
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, 
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, 
Lo ! where a cherub form sublimely towered. 
But dreadful in his glory ! Sternly lowered 
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seemed 
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendot 

beamed 
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, 
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given 
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire 
Seemed his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire 
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, 
A comet's glare presaging -woe and blood. 
He waved his sword — its red, terrific lighi 
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night 
While his left hand sustained a shield so vast, 
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast 
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume 
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom 



O'er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar ; 
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar, 
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, 
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, 
They sleep unheeding ; Avhile the storm on high 
Breaks nor their calm and proud security. 

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with 
his angehc guide, at the moment preceding the 
execution of Louis XVI. 

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies 
Looked fraught with omens, as to harmonize 
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round 
Not a leaf whispered — and the only sound 
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan 
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, 
As if a storm within the woodland bowers 
Were gathering.. On they moved — and lo ! the 

towers 
Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; 
And all revealed, expanding on their view. 
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes — 
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! 

In the dark mantle of a cloud arrayed. 
Viewless and hushed, the angel and the shade 
Entered that evil city. Onward passed 
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast 
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes 
Tears had obscured the splendor of the skies. 
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw 
That altered aspect, and, in breathless awe, 
Marked the strange silence round. The deep- 
toned swell 
Of life's full tide was hushed ; the sacred bell. 
The clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled 
Of labor or of mirth, and in their stead 
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe. 
Inquiring glances, rumors whispered low, 
Questions half uttered, jealous looks that keep 
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep 
That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, 

heard 
At intervals, in many a broken word — 
Voices of mothers, trembling as they pressed 
Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast ; 
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, 
A.nd the wild eloquence of tears and sighs. 
On their own thresholds striving to detain 
Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak and vain 
A-fFection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour 
Of fate and fury — Love hath lost his power ! 
For evil spirits are abroad, the air 
Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms 
there. 



Fired by that thirst for victims which of old 
Baged in their bosoms fierce and uncontrolled, 
Bush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimmed th« 

day. 
Blood, human blood, hath stained their vestJ 

and hair. 
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, 
Scattering red showers around then ! Flaming 

brands 
And serpent scourges in their restless hands 
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high 
The steel, th' envenomed bowl ; and, hurry- 

^g ty. 
With touch of fire contagious fury dart 
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. 
Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrained no 

more. 
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour ; 
From every heart affrighted mercy flies. 
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. 
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street 
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, 
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze. 
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas 
Heard at the dead of midnight ; or the moan 
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone 
Of the far thunder ! Then what feelings pressed, 
wretched Basville ! on thy guilty breast ; 
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold 
Death's awful banner to the winds unfold ! 
To see the axe, the scafl'old, raised on high — 
The dark impatience of the murderer s eye. 
Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good, 
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood 
Dragged to a felon's death ! Yet still hia 

mien, 
'Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; 
And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved ! 
Where have you borne your monarch ? — He 

who loved — 
Loved you so well ! Behold ! the sue growe 

pale. 
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil , 
The misty air is silent, as in dread, 
And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o'er- 

spread ; 
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, 
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers ol 

rest. 

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile 
The regal victim came ; and raised the while 
His patient glance, with such an aspect high. 
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, 



174 



ITALIAN LI' 



TEiR 



ATTIRE. 



That e'en the assassins' hearts a moment shook 
Before the grandeur of that kingly look ; 
And a strange thrill of pity, half renewed, 
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. 

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, 
Prayed till the bitterness of death was passed — 
2'en for his murderers prayed, in that dark hour 
When his soul yielded to affliction's power. 
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad — 
'• Hast thou forsaken mc, my God ! my God ! " 
E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer arose. 
Thus ealhng dovni forgiveness on his foes — 
" To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried ; 
" And my lost people, Father ! be their guide ! " 

But the sharp steel descends — the blow is given, 
And answered by a thunder peal from heaven ; 
Earth, stained with blood, convulsive terrors 

owns, 
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 

The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been 
the last tragedy he composed, and is distin- 
guished to a remarkable degree by that tender- 
ness of Avhich his former works present so few 
examples. It would appear as if the pure and 
exalted affection by which the impetuosity of 
his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter 
j-eais of his life, had impressed its whole char- 
acter on this work, as a record of that domestic 
happiness in whose bosom his heart at length 
found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writ- 
ings bear witness to that "fever at the core," 
that burning impatience of restraint, and those 
incessant and untamable aspirations after a 
wider sphere of action, by which his youth was 
consumed ; but the poetry of Alcestis must find 
its echo in every heart which has known the 
power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of 
thcii- dissolution. The interest of the piece, how- 
ever, though entirely domestic, is not for a mo- 
ment allowed to languish ; nor does the conju- 
gal affection, which forms the mainspring of the 
action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insi- 
pidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis 
herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affec- 
tion, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to 
our imagination the calm and tempered majesty 
distinguishing the masterpiece? of Greek sculp- 
ture, in which the expression of mental or bodi- 



ly suffering is never allowed to transgress th« 
limits of beauty and sublimit}'. The union of 
dignity and affliction impressing more than 
earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, 
would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this 
analogy. 

The following scene, in which Alcestis an- 
nounces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the 
terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has de- 
clared that his son may be restored, has seldom 
been surpassed by the author, even in his most 
celebrated productions. It is, however, to be 
feared that little of its beauty can be transfused 
into a translation, as the severity of a style so 
completely devoid of imagery must render it 
dependent for many incommunicable attractions 
upon the melody of the original language. 

ACT I. — Scene 11. 
Alcestis, Pheres. 

Ale, Weep thou no more ! O monarch, dry 
thy tears ! 
For know, he shall not die ; not now shall fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. ' 

Phe. What mean thy words ? 
Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope ? 

Ale. Yes ! hope for thee — hope by the voice 
announced 
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
For thee to hear from mine. 

Phe. But say ! O, say, 
Shall then my son be spared ? 

Ale. He shall, to thee. 
Thus hath Apollo said — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle — be thou secure. 

Phe. O, sounds of joy ! He lives ! 

Ale. But not for this ; 
Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy 
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. 

Phe. Can there be grief when from his Ded 
of death 
Admetus rises ? What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words ? What mcan'st thou ? Gra- 
cious Heaven ! 
Thou, whoso deep love is all his own, wha 

hear'st 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 
Transport and life in that glad oracle 
To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged 
With death, and on thy pure, ingenuoua 

brow. 
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



173 



Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art 

■^Tapped 
In troubled silence. Speak ! O, speak ! 

Ale. The gods 
Themselves have limitations to their power 
Impassable, eternal — and then- will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

Phe. In thy looks 
Fheie is expression, more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, 

what terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us 
The rescued life of him thy soul adores ? 

Ale. lather ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, 
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfilled 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; 
And since too soon, too well it must be known, 
Hear it from me. 

Phe. Throughout my curdling veins 
Runs a cold, deathlike horror ; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, 

fair and high-souled consort of my son! 
More than a daughter ; and thine infant race. 
The cherished hope and glory of my age ; 
And, unimpaired by time, within my breast, 
High, holy, and unalterable love 

For her, the partner of my cares and joys. 
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, 
In what suspense, what agony of fear, 

1 wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see 
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries. 
To some one of my race. 

Ale. Death hath his rights, 
Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob 'him. By his ruthless hand, 
Already seized, the noble victim lay, 
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime 
And noonday, struck : — Admetus, the revered. 
The blessed, the loved, by all who owned his sway, 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his — and O, what need to add. 
How much by his Alcestis ? — Such was he, 
Ao'eady in th' unsparing grasp of death 
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatched him, and another in his stead. 
Though not an equal — (who can equal him ?) 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. 
Another, of his lineage or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To th.e dark realm of Orcus in his place, 
Who thus alone is saved. 



Phe. What do I hear i- 
Woe to us, woe ! — what victim ? — who shall be 
Accepted in his stead ? 

Ale- The dread exchange 
E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 
For whom 'tis freely offered. Nor wilt thou, 
O mighty goddess of th' infernal shades ! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, 
Disdain the victim. 

Phe. All prepared the prey ! 
And to our blood allied ! O heaven ! — and yel 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Ale. Yes ! thus I said. 
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's nor I deplore my husband's doom 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe 
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard 
Than those his death had caused. — With some 

few tears. 
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy. 
E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts. 
The victim shall be honored who resigned 
Life for Admetus. Wouldst thou know the 

prey. 
The vowed, the willing, the devoted one, 
Offered and hallowed to th' infernal gods, 
Father ! — 'tis I. 

Phe. What hast thou done ? heaven ! 
What hast thou done ? and think' st thou he is 

saved 
By such a compact ? Think'st thou he can live 
Bereft of thee ? — Of thee, his light of life. 
His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more 
Than his loved parents — than his childrer 

more — 
More than himself ? O, no h it shall not be ! 
Thou perish, Alcestis ! in the flower 
Of thy young beauty ? — perish, and destroy. 
Not him, not him alone, |3ut us, but all, 
Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate 
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. 
And think'st thou not of those whose tendei 

years 
Demand thy care ? — thy children ! think of 

them ! 
thou, the source of each domestic joy. 
Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives. 
His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die 
While I can die for thee ! Me, me alone, ; 
The oratle demands — a withered stem, 
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. 
My race is run — the fulness of my years, 
The faded hopes of age, and all the love 
Which hath it? dwelling in a father's heart. 



176 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 
i 



And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, 
Inspired by thee, wliose youth with heavenly gifts 
So richly is endowed ; — all, aU unite 
To grave in adamant the just decree. 
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! 
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis — live ! 
Ne'er, ne'sr shall woman's youthful love surpass 
An aged sire's devotedness. 

Ale. I know 
f hy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 
Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words. 
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
They may not be withstood. 

Phe. "What canst thou say 
Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save 
Him who with thee wouldperish ; — to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Ale. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. 
Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms. 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of the awful right 
That vow hath won. 

Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, 
Mom-n for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. O, the more endeared 
My life by every tie — the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead 
A guest more honored. 

In thy presence here 
Again I uttered the tremendous vow. 
Now more than half fulfilled. I feel, I know. 
Its dread ctt'ccts. Through all mj"- burning veins 
Th' insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard — he calls. 
He summons mc away — and thou art saved, 
O my Admetus : — 

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis en- 
ters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, 
to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of 
Proserpine's statue. The followiiig scene ensues 
between her and Admetus : — • 

Ak. Here, O my faithful handmaids ! at the feet 
Of Proserpine's dread image spread my couch ; 
For 1 myself e'en now must offer here 



The victim she requires. And you, meanwftile, 
My children ! seek your sire. Behold him there, 
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins 
Health's genial current flows once more, as free 
As in his brightest days : and he shall live — 
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, 
And with your innocent encircling arms 
Twine round him fondly. 

Eum. Can it be indeed. 
Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus 
Restored '' What joy is ours ! 

Adm. There is no joy ! 
Speak not of joy ! Away, away! my grief 
Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more ! 
I know not of aff"ection, and I feel 
No more a father. 

Eum. O, what words are these ? 
Are we no more thy children ? Are we not 
Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck 
More close ; he miist return the fond embrace. 

Adm. O children ! O my children ! to my sou- 
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, 
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more 
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound 
Of your soft accents but too well recalls 
The voice which was the music of my life. 
Alcestis ! my Alcestis ! was she not 
Of all her sex the flower ? Was woman e'er- 
Adored like her before ? Yet this is she, 
The cold of heart, th' ungrateful, who hath left 
Her husband and her infants ! This is she, 

my deserted children ! who at oncp 
Bereaves you of your parents. 

Ale. Woe is me ! 

1 hear the bitter and reproachful cries 

Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 
O, let me strive to soothe him still. Approach. 
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps 
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence. 
That he may hear and see me. 

Adm. Is it thou ? 
And do I see thee still ? and com'st thou thus 
To comfort me, Alcestis ? Must I hear 
The dying accents thus? Alas ! return 
To thy sad couch — return ! 'tis meet for me 
There by thy side forever to remain. 

Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet 
forthee 

Adm. O voice ! O looks of death ! are these, 
are these, 
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, 
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the lite 
Of my fond soul ? Alas ! how faint a ray 
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, 
Upon my di'ooping brow ! How heavily. 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



177 



With what a weight of death thy languid voice 
Kinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. 
Alcestis ! thou art dying — and for me ! 

Alcestis ! and thy feeble hand supports 
With its last power, supports my sinking head, 
E'en now, while death is on thee ! O, the touch 
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. 
I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, 
The image of yon ruthless Deity, 
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, 
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will faU. 

Vain is each obstacle — in vain the gods 
Themselves would check my fury. I am lord 

Of my own days — and thus I swear 

Ale. Yes ! swear, 
Admetus ! for thy children to sustain 
The load of life. All other impious vows. 
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will 
Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form 
Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchained. 
Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not. 
It is from them the inspiration flows 
Which in my language breathes ? They lend 

me power, 
They bid me through thy strengthened soul 

transfuse 
High courage, noble constancy. Submit, 
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm ; 
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme 
To which I now approach, from whom but thee 
Should comfort be derived ? Afflict me not. 
In such'tm hour, with anguish worse than death. 
O faithful and beloved, support me stiE ! 

The choruses with which this tragedy is in- 
terspersed are distinguished for their melody and 
classic beauty. The following translation wUl 
give our readers a faint idea of the one by which 
the third act is concluded : — 

Ale. My children ! all is finished. Now, fare- 
AveU ! 
To thy fond care, Pheres ! I commit 
My widowed lord : forsake him not. 

Euni. Alas ! 
Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us ? From thy side 
Are we forever parted? 

Phe. Tears forbid 
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, 
More lifeless than the dying victim, see 
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet. 
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight 
Of his Alcestis. 

23 , 



Ale. O my handmaids ! still 
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose 
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs 
When death's last pang is o'er. 

Chorus. 

Alas ! how weak 
Her struggling voice ! that last keen pang is near 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hushed, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pang ; let tears unheard be shed, 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast. 
The head that sinks with mortal pain oppressed I 

And thou assistance lend 

To close the languid eye, 
StiU. beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas, how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath. 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death ! death ! thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fieet. 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart, 
Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

Chorus of Admetus. 

'Tis not enough, O, no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 
. Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand. 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below. 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears. 
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway ? 

O ruler of the spheres ! 
Jove ! Jove ! enthroned immortally on high, 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes 
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts hifl eyo 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



178 



ITALIAN LITERATUIIE. 



XL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA 



A THAOEDT. 



BT ALESSANDRO MAXZOKI. 



Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in 
Cannagnola, from whence his nom-de-guerrc Avas 
.lerivcd, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet 
R boy, and employed in the care of flocks and 
herds, the lofty character of his countenance 
was observed by a soldier of fortune, who in- 
vited the j-outh to forsake his rustic occupa- 
tions, and accompany him to the busier scenes 
of the camp. His persuasions were successful, 
and Francesco entered with him into the service 
of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessandria. At the 
time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities 
acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his 
wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was amongst the 
most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice 
afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke of 
Milan, (who rewarded her by an ignominious 
death for the regal dowery she had conferred 
upon him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the 
same time ; and having, by his eminent services, 
firenly established the tottering power of that 
prince, received from him the title of Count, 
and was placed at the head of all his forces. 
The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip's 
disposition, however, at length prevailed ; and 
Carmagnola, disgusted "\'\'ith the evident proof 
of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, 
left his service and his territories, and after a 
variety of adventures took refuge in Venice. 
Thither the treachery of the Duke pursued him, 
und emissaries were employed to jjrocure his 
assassination. The plot, however, proved abor- 
tive, and Carmagnola was elected captain gen- 
eral of the Venetian armies, during the league 
formed by that republic against the Duke of 
Milan. The war was at first carried on with 
much spirit and success, and the battle of Ma- 
clodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of the 
most important and decisive actions of those 
times. The r.ight after the combat, the victo- 
rious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their 
prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made 
a complaint on this subject to the Count, he 
inquired what was become of the captives ; and 
upon being informed that all, except four hun- 
dred had been set free, he gave orders that the 
remaining; ones also should be released imme- 
diately, according to the custom which pre- 
vailed amongst the armies of those days, the 



object of which was to prevent a speedy termi- 
nation of the war. This proceeding of Carma- 
gnola's occasioned much distrust and irritation 
in the minds of the Venetian rulers ; and their 
displeasure was increased when the armada of 
the Republic, commanded by II Trevisani, was 
defeated upon the Po, without any attempt in 
its favor having been made by the Count. The 
failure of their attempt upon Cremona was also 
imputed to him as a crime ; and the Senate, re- 
solving to free themselves from a powerful chief, 
now become an object of suspicion, after many 
deliberations on the best method of carrying 
their designs into effect, at length determined 
to invite him to Venice, under pretence of con- 
sulting him on their negotiations for peace. He 
obeyed their summons without hesitation or 
mistrust, and was every where received with 
extraordinary honors during the course of his 
journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before 
he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were 
sent to meet him, by whom he Avas escorted to 
St. Mark's Place. When he was introduced 
into the ducal palace, his attendants were dis- 
missed, and informed that he would be in pri- 
vate with the Doge for a considerable time. He 
was arrested in the palace, then examined by 
the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a 
wound he had received in the service of the Re- 
public rendered still more agonizing, and con- 
demned to death. On the oth May, 1432, he was 
conducted to execution, with his mouth gagged, 
and beheaded between the two columns of St. 
Mark's Place. With regard to the innocence 
or guilt of this distinguished character, there 
exists no authentic information. The author of 
the tragedy, which we are about to analyze, has 
chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, 
and probability at least is on this side. It is 
possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring 
warrior, accustomed to command, and impatient 
of control, might have been the principal cause 
of offence to the Venetians ; or perhaps their 
jealousy was excited by his increasing power 
over the minds of an obedient army ; and, not 
considering it expedient to disjjlace him, they 
resolved upon his destruction. 

This tragedy, which is formed upon the model 
of the English and German drama, comprises 
the history of Carmagnola's life, fiom the day 
on which he was made commander of the Ve- 
netian armies to that of his execution, thus em- 
bracing a period of about seven years The 
extracts we are about to present to our readers 
will enable them to form their own opinion of a 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



170 



piece -which nas excited so much attention in 
Italy. The firsr act opens in Venice, in the hall 
of the Senate. The Doge proposes that the 
Count di Carmagnola should be consulted on 
the projected league oetween the Republic and 
the Florentines, against the Duke of Milan. To 
this all agree ; and tne Count is introduced. 
He begins by justifying his conduct from the 
imputations to which it might be liable, in con- 
sequence of his appearing as the enemy of the 
Prince whom he had so recently served : — 

He cast me down 

From the high place my blood had deaily won ; 
And when I sought his presence, to appeal 
for justice there, 'twas vain ! My foes had 

formed 
Around his throne a barrier : e'en my life 
Became the mark of hatred ; but in this 
Their hopes have failed — I gave them not the 

time. 
My life ! — I stand prepared to yield it up 
On the pioud field, and in some noble cause 
For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey, 
Not to be caught ignobly in the toQs 
Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtained 
With you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here 
His snares were cast around me. Now all ties 
Are broke between us ; to an open foe, 
An open foe I come. 

He then gives counsel in favor of war, and 
retires, leaving the Senate engaged in delibera- 
tion. War is resolved upon, and he is elected 
commander. The fourth scene represents the 
iiouse of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble ; 
but its character is much more that of English 
than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, with- 
out difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of 
Hamlet. 

A leader — or a fugitive ? To drag 

Slow years along in idle vacancy. 

As a worn veteran living on the fame 

Of former deeds — to offer humble prayers 

And blessings for protection — owing all 

Yet left me of existence to the might 

Of other swords, dependent on some arm 

Which soon may cast me off; or on the field 

To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life 

Rush proudly through my veins — to hail again 

My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice 

To wake ! to rule ! to conquer ! — Which must be 

My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace 

Bhruld be the choice of Venice, shall I cling 



Still poorly to ignoble safety here. 

Secluded as a homicide, who cowers 

Within a temple's precincts ? Shall not he 

Who made a kingdom's fate, control his own ! 

Is there not one among the many lords 

Of this divided Italy — not one 

With soul enough to envy that bright crown 

Encircling Philip's head ? And know they «o 

'Twas won by me from many a tyrant's grasp. 

Snatched by my hand, and placed upon the brov 

Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns 

Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize 

On him who best shall call the prowess forth 

Which slumbers m my arm ? 

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, 
now arrives, and announces to him that war ia 
resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the 
command of the armies, at the same time ad- 
vising him to act with caution towards his ene« 
mies in the Republic. 

Car. Think' St thou I know not whom to deere 

my foes ? 
Ay, I could number all. 

Mar. And know'st thou, too. 
What fault hath made them such ? 'Tis tha^* 

thou art 
So high above them : 'tis that thy disdain 
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one 
Hath done thee wrong ; but who, when so re 

solved, 
Finds not his time to injure ? In thy thoughts 
Save when they cross thj^ path, no place is theirs , 
But they remember thee. The high in soul 
Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart 
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not ; 
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own, 
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul 
Revolts indignantly ; thou know'st it well : 
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet 
For the most loftj' nature, — there is power 
Of Avinning meaner minds, without descent 
From the high spirit's glorious eminence, — 
And wouldst thou seek that magic, it A-ere 

thine. 

The first scene of the second act represents 
part of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodio. 
Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, 
a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberat- 
ing upon the state of the war. Pergola consid- 
ers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a 
contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza 
and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, 



and Torello, who endeavors to convince them of 
its inexpediency. 

S/o. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul 
\\ nich fires each soldier's eye ? 

Tor. I marked it well. 
I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice 
Of Hope and Courage ; and I turned aside, 
That on my brow the warrior might not read 
J'h* involuntary thought whose sudden gloom 
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought 
That this vain semblance of delusive joy 
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought 
On wasted valor doomed to perish here. 

For these — what boots it to disguise the truth r 
These are no wars in which, for all things loved, 
And precious, and revered — for all the ties 
Clinging around the heart — for those whose 

smile 
Makes homo so lovely — for his native land, 
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights ! 
These are no wars in which the chieftain's aim 
Ts but to station his devoted bands. 
And theirs, thus fixed — to die ! It is our fate 
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe 
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts 
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on: 
But if delayed, if between flight and death 
Pausing they stand — is there no cause to doubt 
What choice were theirs ? And but too well 

our hearts 
That choice might here foresee. O, evil times, 
When for the leader care augments, the more 
Bright glory fades away ! Yet once again, 
This is no field for us. 

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to 
attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes 
of the second act represent the tent of the Count 
in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for 
battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric 
poetry is introduced, in wMch the battle is de- 
.Hcribed, and its fatal effects lamented with all the 
feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears 
to us, however, that this ode, hjonn, or chorus, 
as the author has entitled it, striking as its ef- 
lect may be in a separate recitation, produces a 
much less powoi-ful impression in the situation 
It occupies at present. It is even necessary, in 
order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it 
should be rcpcrused, as a thing detached from 
the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our 
opinion, from a tragic action, in which the char- 
acters are represented as clothed with existence, 



and pass.ng before us with all their contending 
motives and feelings laid open to our inspec- 
tion, to the comparative coldness of a 1)^11? 
piece, where the author's imagination expatiates 
alone. The poet may have been led into this 
error by a definition of Schlegel's, who, speak- 
ing of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opin- 
ion, that " the chorus is to be considered as a 
personification of the moral thoughts inspired 
by the action — as the organ of the poet, who 
speaks in the name of the whole human race. 
The chorus, in short, is the ideal spectator." 
But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek 
chorus was composed of 7-eal characters, and ex- 
pressed the sentiments of the people before 
whose eyes the action was imagined to be pass- 
ing : thus the true spectator, after witnessing in 
representation the triumphs or misfortunes of 
kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the 
idea supposed to be entertained on the subject 
by the more enlightened part of the multitude. 
If the author, availing himself of his talent for 
lyric poetry, and varying the measure in con- 
formity to the subject, had brought his chorus 
into action — introducing, for example, a veteran 
looking down upon the battle from an eminence, 
and describing its vicistitudes to the persons be- 
low, with whom he might interchange a varie- 
ty of national and moral reflections — it appears 
to us that the dramatic eff'ect would have been 
considerably heightened, and the assertion that 
the Greek chorus is not compatible with the sys- 
tem of the modern drama possibly disapproved. 
We shall present our readers with the entire 
chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to 
be read separately, and one to which the follow- 
ing title would be much more approjjriate. 

The Battle of Maclodio, {or Macalo.') An Ode. 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet'i 

sound, 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, 
Hollow and deep — and banners, all around, 
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies ; 
Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shine^ 
And there a host confronts their glittering line, 

Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanished, hid by closing groops of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o'er th« 

fight, 
And the strife deepens, and the lifeblood flows ! 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



18i 



0, who are those ? What stranger in his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose ? 
What patriot hearts have nobly vowed to save 
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 

One race, alas ! these foes — one kindred race, 
Were born and reared the same fair scenes 

among ! 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each 

face 
That brotherhood reveals ; one common tongue 
Dwells on their lips — the earth on which we 

trace 
Their heart's blood is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land, 
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

0, grief and horror ! who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield ? 
What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare, 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field ? 
Think' st thou they know ? — they but inflict 

and share 
Misery and death, the motive unrevealed ! 
— Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, 
With him they strive — they fall — and ask not 

why. 

But are there none who love th'em ? Have they 

none — 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 
And win with tears the husband and the son 
Back to his home, from this polluted scene ? 
And they whose hearts, when life's bright day 

is done. 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, 
Thoughts of the tomb — why cannot they as- 
suage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age ? 

Ask not ! — the peasant at his cabin door 
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down o'er fields he hath not 

ploughed. * 

Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest 

gaze 
Fixed on his mother's lipa, intent to know, 



By names of insult, those whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone with radiant gems that glow. 
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borncv 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Woe to the victors and the vanquished ! woe ! 
The earth is heaped, is loaded with the slain ; 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow — 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo ! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain. 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air, 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquished in their wild despair, 
Chased, severed, scattered, o'er the ample 

ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there. 
Burst on their flight ; and hark ! the deepening 

sound 
Of fierce pursuit ! — still nearer and more near, 
The rush of war steeds trampling in the rear 

The day is won ! They fall — disarmed they 

yield. 
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying ! 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field. 
Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying ' 
Haste ! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying ; 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidings of the 

day, 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 

eager multitudes ! around him pressing ? 
Each hurrying where his breathless coursei 

foams. 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confesg 

ing! 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omened herald comei 
And dare ye dream he comes with words oj 

blessing ? — 
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold • 
Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 

1 hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry ! 
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral 

strains : 
E'en now the homicides assail the sky 
With paeans, which indignant Heaver disdains ! 



:62 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



But from the soaring Alps the stranger's eye 
Looks ■watchful clown on our ensanguined plains, 
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below. 

Easte ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 

Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending. 

rh' invader comes : your banners raise anew. 

Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ! 

Victors! -why pause ye? — Are ye weak and 
few? — 

Ay ! such he deemed you, and for this de- 
scending, 

He waits you on the field ye know too well. 

The same red war field where your brethren fell. 

O thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 

In peace thine oft'spring ; thou, the lost and won, 

The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 

Too narrow still for each contending son ; 

Receive the stranger, in his fierce career 

Parting thy spoils ! Thy chastening is begun ! 

And, \vresting from thy kings the guardian 

sword, 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged sit proud- 
ly at thy board. 

Are these infatuate too ! — O, who hath knovm 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest? 
The wronged, the vanquished, suff'er not alone ; 
Brief is that joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown. 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his 

haughty crest, 
Well hath it marked him — and decreed the 

hour 
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its 

power. 

Are we not creatures of one hand divine, 
Formed in one mould, to one redemption born ? 
Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should 

twine, 
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn ! 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to 

earth, 
^Vho bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 

The third act, which passes entirely in the 
tent of the Count, is composed of long dis- 
courses between Carmagnola and the Venetian 
envoys. One of these requires him to pursue 



the fugitives after his victory, which he 1 augh- 
tily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave 
the field until he has gained possession of the 
surrounding fortresses. Another complains that 
the Condottieri and the soldiers have released 
their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an 
established military custom ; and, sending for 
the remaining four hundred captives, he gives 
them their liberty also. This act, which termi- 
nates with the suspicious observations of the 
envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is rather bar- 
ren of interest, though the episode of the younger 
Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, 
is happily imagined. 

As the prisoners are departing, the Count ob- 
serves the younger Pergola, and stops him. 

Car. Thou art not, youth ! 
One to be numbered with the vulgar crowd. 
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would 

speak 
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest 
Thou minglest, and art silent ! 

Per. Silence best, 

chief ! befits the vanquished. 
Car. Bearing up 

Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved 
Worthy a better star. Thy name ? 

Per. 'Tis one 
Whose heritage doth impose no common task 
On him that bears it ; one which to adorn 
With brighter blazonry were hard emprisp • 
My name is Pergola. 

Car. And art thou, then, 
That warrior's son ? 

Per. I am. 

Car. Approach ! embrace 
Thy father's early friend ! What thou art now 

1 was when first we met. O, thou dost bring 
Back on my heart remembrance of the days, 
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days. 
Of hope and ardor. And despond not thou ! 
My dawn, 'tis true, with brighter omens smiled 
But still fair Fortune's glorious promises 

Are for the brave ; and, though delayed a while 
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute 
Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee 
I asked it, yet my heart is well assured 
He counselled not this battle. 

Per. O, he gave 
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words 
Were spoken to the winds. 

Car. Lament thou not. 
Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest 
Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



U4 



Fixed at his post of peril hath begun 
A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me ; 
I -will restore thy sword. 

The fourth act is occupied by the machina- 
ttons of the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the 
aolous and complicated policy of that Republic, 
and the despotic authority of the Council of 
Ten, are skilfully developed in many of the 
scenes. 

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice 
in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola 
is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace 
ofiered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is 
received with disdain, and, after various insults, 
he is accused of treason. His astonishment and 
indignation at this unexpected charge are ex- 
pressed with all the warmth and simplicity of 
innocence. 

Car. A traitor ! I ! — that name of infamy 
Keaches not mie. Let him the title bear 
Who best deserves such meed — it is not mine. 
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit. 
For such my part is here ; yet would I not 
Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. 
A traitor ! — I retrace in thought the time 
When for your cause I fought ; 'tis all one path 
Strewed o'er with flowers. Point out the day 

on which 
A traitor's deeds were mine ; the day which 

passed , 

Unmarked by thanks, and praise, and promises 
Of high reward ! What more ? Behold me here ! 
And when I came to seeming honor called, 
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice 
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith — 
Of trusting faith ! — O, no ! Doth he who comes 
Th' invited guest of friendship dream of faith ? 
I came to be insnared ! Well ! it is done. 
And be it so ! but since deceitful hate 
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, 
Praise be to Heaven ! an open field at least 
Is spread before us. Now 'tis yours to speak. 
Mine to defend my cause ; declare ye then ^ 
My treasons ! 

Doffe. By the secret college soon 
AH shall be told thee. 

Car. I appeal not there. 
What I have done for you hath all been done 
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not 
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds 
Warriors alone should judge ; and such I choose 
To be mine arbiters — my proud defence 
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. 



Doge. The time for choice is past. 
Car. What ! Is there force 
Emploj^ed against me ? — Guards ! {raising hi* 

voice.) 
Doge. They are not nigh. 
Soldiers ! {enter armed men.) Thy guards are 

these. 
Car. I am betrayed ! 
Doge. 'Twas then a thought of wisdom tfl 

disperse 
Thy followers. Well and justly was it doomed 
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised 
Might prove a rebel too. 

Car. E'en as ye list. 
Now be it yours to charge me. 

Doge. Bear him hence. 
Before the secret college. 

Car. Hear me yet 
One moment first. That ye have doomed mj 

■ death 
I well perceive ; but with that death ye doom 
Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers, 
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats 
The banner of the Lion, in its pride 
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe 

know 
/ bore it thus to empire. Here, 'tis true, 
No voice will speak men's thoughts ; but fax 

beyond 
The limits of your sway, in other scenes, 
Where that still, speechless terror hath no^ 

reached. 
Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds 
And your reward will live in chronicles 
Forever to endure. Yet, yet respect 
Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need 
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours ? 
Forget not, though your captive now I stand, 
I was not born your subject. No ! my birth 
Was 'midst a warlike people, one in soul, 
And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem 
The honor of each citizen its own. 
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard ? 
There is some treachery here. Our common foea 
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know 
I have been faithful stiU. There yet is time. 
Doge. The time is past. When thou didst 

meditate 
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy 
Those destined to chastise it, then the hour 
Of foresight should have been. 

Car. O, mean in soul ! 
And dost thou dare to think a warrior's breast 
For worthless life can tremble ? Thou shalt soon 
Learn how to die. Go ! When the hour of fat« 



184 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



On thy vile ccach o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet 
Its summons with far other mien than such 
^ As I shall bear to ignominious death. 

Scene II — The House of Carmagnola. 
Antonietta, IMatilda. 

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, 
and yet 
My father comes not ! 

Ant. Ah ! thou hast not learned, 
By sad experience, with how slow a pace 
Joys ever come ; expected long, and oft 
Deceiving expectation ! while the steps 
Of grief o'ertake us ere we dream them nigh. 
But night is past, the long and lingering hours 
Of hope deferred are o'er, and those of bliss 
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more. 
And he is with us. E'en from this delay 
I augur well. A council held so long 
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, 
Perhaps for years our own. 

Mat. O mother ! thus 
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, 
And days in all the sickness of suspense. 
Our anxious love hath passed. It is full time 
That each sad moment, at each rumored tale, 
Each idle murmur of the people's voice. 
We should not longer tremble, that no more 
This thought should haunt our souls. — E'en 

now, perchance, 
Hp for whom thus your hearts are yearning — 
dies ! 

Ant. O, fearful thought — but vain and dis- 
tant now ! 
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with 

grief. 
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led 
In triumph 'midst the noble and the brave. 
Thy glorious father to the temple bore 
The banners won in battle from his foes ? 

Mat. A day to be remembered ! 

Ant. By his side 
Each seemed inferior. Every breath of air 
Swelled with his echoing name ; and we, the while 
Stationed on high and severed from the throng. 
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all. 
While, with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelmed. 
Our hearts beat high, and whispered — " We 
are his." 

Mat. Moments of joy ! 

Ant. What have we done, my child, 
I'o merit such ? Heaven, for so high a fate. 
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow 
Inscribrd a lofty name — a name so bright, . 



That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whate'el 
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark 
For envy is the glory of our lot ! 
And we should weigh its joys against these houri 
Of fear and sorrow. 

Mat. They are past e'en now. 
Hark ! 'twas the sound of oars ! — it swells — 

'tis hushed ! 
The gates unclose. O mother ! I behold 
A warrior clad in mail — he comes ! 'tis he ! 

Ant. Whom should it be if not himself ? — 
my husband ! {She comes forward.) 

{Enter Gonzaga and others.) 

Ant. Gonzaga ! — Where is he we looked for ? 
Where ? 
Thou ansvver'st not ! Heaven ! thy looks are 

fraught 
With prophecies of woe ! 

Gon. Alas ! too true 
The omens they reveal ! 

Mat. Of woe to whom ? 

Go7i. O, why hath such a task of bitterness 
Fallen to my lot ? 

Ant. Thou wouldst be pitiful. 
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense i 
Speak ! I adjure thee, in the name of God 1 
Where is my husband ? 

Gon. Heaven sustain your souls 
With fortitude to bear the tale ! My chief— 

Mat. Is he returned unto the field ? 

Gon. Alas ! 
Thither the warrior shall return no more. 
The senate's wrath is on him. He is now 
.A prisoner ! 

Ant. He is a prisoner ! — and for what ? 

Gon. He is accused of treason. 

Mat. Treason ! He 
A traitor ! — O, my father ! 

Ant. Haste ! proceed. 
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for r.U 
Say, what shall be his sentence ? 

Gon. From my lips 
It shall not be revealed. 

Ant. O, he is slain ! 

Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fixed. 

Ant. He lives ! 
Weep not, my daughter ! 'tis the time to act. 
For pity's sake, Gonzaga, be thou not 
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee 
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. 
He was thy friend — ah ! haste, then, be oui 

guide ; 
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child . 
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is lefl 



Mercy upon the earth. Yes ! they themselves 
4je husbands, they are fathers ! "When they 

signed 
The fearful sentence, they remembered not 
He was a father and a husband too. 
But when their eyes behold the agony 
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts 

will melt : 
They -vnll, they 7nust revoke it. O, the sight 
Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! 
Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdained 
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall 
His triumphs won for them. It is for us 
To wake each high remembrance. Ah ! we know 
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, 
And we will pray. 

Gon. O Heaven ! that I could leave 
Your hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf. 
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt 
Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis launched 
Is veiled in clouds. There is one comfort still. 
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, 
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. 
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of 

heart. 
0, fearful is the trial, but the God 
Of mourners will be with you. 

Mat. Is there not 
One hope ? 

Ant. Alas ! my child ! 

Scene IV. — A Prison. 

Cakmagnola. 

They must have heard it now. — O that at least 
I might have died far from them ! Though their 

hearts 
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, 
The solemn hour of nature's parting pangs 
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now. 
And we must drain its draught of bitterness 
Together, drop by drop. O, ye wide fields. 
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms ! 
O, proud delights of danger ! Battle cries. 
And thou, my war steed ! and ye trumpet notes 
Kindling the soul ! 'Midst your tumultuous joys 
Death seemed all beautifixl. — And must I then. 
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate 
Be dragged, e'en as a felon, on the winds 
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints ? 
And Marco ! hath he not betrayed me too ? 
Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul 
Before I die ! - But no ! What boots it now 
Thus to look bacK on life with eye that turns 
24 



To linger where my footstep may not tread ? 
Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 
I too have proved such vain and impious joysi 
And know their value now. But O, again 
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, 
Last accents of their voices ! By those arms 
Once more to be encircled, and from thence 
To tear myself forever ! — Hark ! they come ! — 
O God of mercy, from thy throne look down 
In pity on their woes ! 

Scene V. 

Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and 
Caemagnola. 

Ant. My husband ! 
Mat. O my father ! 
Ant. Is it thus 
That thou returnest ? and is this the hour 
Desired so long ? 

Car. ye afflicted ones ! 
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. 
Long have my thoughts been used to look an 

Death, 
And calmly wait his time. For you alone 
My soul hath need of firmness ; will ye, then, 
Deprive me of its aid ? When the Most High 
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows 
The courage to sustain them. O, let yours 
Equal your sorrows ! Let us yet find joy 
In this embrace : 'tis still a gift of Heaven. 
Thou weep'st, my child! and thou, belovferf 

wife! 
Ah ! when I made thee mine, thy days flowed on 
In peace and gladness ; I united thee 
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought 
Imbitters death ! O that I had not seen 
The woes I cause thee ! 

Ant. Husband of my youth ! 
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them 

bright. 
Read thou my heart ! the pangs of death are 

there. 
And yet e'en now — I would not but be thine. 
Car. Full well I know how much I lose iq 

thee; 
O, make me not too deeply feel it now. 
Mat. The homicides ! 
Car. No, sweet Matilda, no ! 
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rist* 
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb 
These moments — they are sacred. Yes I my 

wrongs 
Are deep ; but thou, forgivo them, and confess, 
That, e'en 'midst all the fulness of ova woe. 



/J6 



ITALIAN LITERATURE, 



Sigh, holy joy remains. Death! death! — our 

foes, 
G'ar most relentless foes, can only speed 
Ta' inevitable hour. O, man hath not 
Invented death for man ; it would be the7i 
Maddening and insupportable : from Heaven 
Tis sent, and Heaven doth temper all its pangs 
With such blest comfort as no mortal power 
Can give or take away. My wife ! my child ! 
Hear my last words — they wring your bosoms 

now 
With agony, but yet, some future day, 
'Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife ! 
Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starred girl 
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, 
Conduct her to thy kindred : she is theirs. 
Of their own blood — and they so loved thee 

once ! 
Then, to their foe united, thou becam'st 
Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring 

sounds 
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. 
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return 
A mourner ; and the object of their hate 
Will be no more. — O, there is joy in death ! — 
And thou, my flower ! that, 'midst the din of 

arms, 
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head 
Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage 
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart 
Can scarce contains the heavings of its woe. 
t feel thy burning tears upon my breast — 
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim 
Pity from me, Matilda ? O, thy sire 
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st 
That the forsaken have a Father still 
On high. Confide in Him, and live to days 
Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee 
He surely destines. Wherefore hath he poured 
The torrent of affliction on thy youth. 
If to thy future years be not reserved 
All His benign compassion ! Live ! and soothe 
Thy suff"ering mother. May she to the arms 
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still ! — 
Gonzaga ! take the hand which thou hast pressed 
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts 
Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. 
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith 
To guide and guard these mourners, till they 

join 
Their friends and kindred ? 
Gon. Rest assured, I will. 
Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, 
Thou to the field returnest, there for me 
Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died 



Guiltless ; thou hast been witness of mj' deeds, 
Hast read my inmost thoughts — and know'st 

it well. 
Tell them I never with a traitor's shame 
Stained my bright sword. O, never I — I myself 
Have been insnared by treachery. Think of mo 
When trumpet notes are stirring every heart, 
And banners proudly waving in the air, — 
Think of thine ancient comrade ! And the day 
Following the combat, when upon the field. 
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony 
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, 
With lifted hands, is off'ering for the slain 
His sacrifice to Heaven, forget me not ! 
For I, too, hoped upon the battle plain 
E'en so to die. 

A?it. Have mercy on us, Heaven ! 
Car. My wife ! Matilda ! Now the hour is 
nigh. 
And we must part. — Farewell ! 
JUat. No, father ! no ! 

Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, 
and then 
For pity's sake depart ! 
Ant. No ! force alone 
Shall tear us hence. 

(A sound of arms is heard.) 
Mat. Hark ! what dread sound ! 
Ant. Great God ! 

( The door is half opened, and armed men 
enter, the chief of lohom advances to 
the Count. His wife and daughter 
fall senseless.) 
Car. O God ! I thank thee. O most merciful I 
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs 
Of this dread moment's conflict ! 

Thou, my friend, 
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe. 
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose 
To meet the day — that nought is left to fear. 

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the 
last act, the attention which this tragedy has ex- 
cited in Italy must be principally attributed to the 
boldness of the author in so completely emanci- 
pating himself from the fetters of the dramatic 
unities. The severity with which the tragic poeti 
of that country have, in general, restricted them- 
selves to those rules, has been sufficiently remark 
able to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for 
the courage of the writer who should attempt to 
violate them. Although this piece comprises a 
period of several years, and that, too, in daya 
so troubled and so "fuU of fate" --days in 
which the deepest passions and most powerful 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



187 



energies of the human mind were called into 
action by the strife of conflicting interests — 
there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of 
ncident, as if " to be born and die " made all 
the history of aspiring natures contending for 
supremacy. The character of the hero is por- 
trayed in words, not in actions ; it does not un- 
fold iiself in any struggle of opposite feelings and 
passions, and the interest excited for him only 
commences at the moment when it ought to have 
reached its climax. The merits of the piece 
may be summed up in the occasional energy of 
the language and dignity of the thoughts ; and 
the truth with which the spirit of the age is 
characterized, as well in the development of that 
suspicious policy distinguishing the system of 
the Venetian government, as in the pictures of 
the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of 
war — 

" Jealous of honor, sudden and quick in quarrel.'' 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 

A TRAGEDY. 
BY MONTI. 

This tragedy, though inferior in power and 
interest to the Aristodemo of the same author, is 
nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high 
order, and such as, in our opinion, fully estab- 
lish its claims to more general attention than it 
has hitherto received. Although the loftiness 
and severity of Roman manners, in the days of 
the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved 
to give an impressive character to the piece, yet 
those workings of passion and tenderness — 
without which dignity soon becomes monoto- 
nous, and heroism unnatural — have not been 
(as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar sub- 
jects) too rigidly suppressed. 

The powerful character of the high-hearted 
Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty 
which our ideas are wont to associate with the 
name of a Roman matron, and the depth and 
sublimity of maternal affection more particular- 
ly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are 
beautifully contrasted with the softer and more 
womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the 
sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied 
in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. 
The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are 
full of majestic eloquence ; and the whole piece 
Beems to be animated by that restless and un- 
tamable spirit of freedom, whose immortalized 



struggles for ascendency give so vivid a color- 
ing, so exalted an interest, to the annals of thi 
ancient repubUcs. 

The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caiua 
Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, 
after having been employed in rebuilding Car- 
thage, which Scipio had utterly demolished. 

Caius, in Rome behold thyself ! The night 
Hath spread her favoring shadows o'er thy path: 
And thou, be strong, my country ! for thy son 
Gracchus is with thee ! All is hushed around, 
And in deep slumber ; from the cares of day 
The worn plebeians rest. O, good and true, 
And only Romans ! your repose is sweet, 
For toil hath given it zest ; 'tis calm and pure, 
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, 
My brother's murderers, the patricians, hold 
Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards. 
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me 
To death, and Rome to chains. They little 

deem 
Of the unlooked-for and tremendous foe 
So near at hand ! — It is enough. I tread 
In safety my paternal threshold. — Yes ! 
This is my own ! O mother ! O my wife ! 
My child ! — I come to dry your tears. I come 
Strengthened by three dread furies : — One is 

wrath, 
Fired by my country's wrongs ; and one deep 

love, 
For those, my bosom's inmates ; and the third — 
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's 

blood ! 

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance 
of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate 
character and unprincipled designs he is repre- 
sented as unacquainted. From the opening 
speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of 
the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he 
is attended, it appears that he is just returned 
from the perpetration of some crime, the nature 
of which is not disclosed until the second act. 

The suspicions of Caius are, however, awa- 
kened, by the obscure allusions to some act of 
signal but secret vengeance, which Fulviuf 
throws out in the course of the ensuing dis 
cussion. 

Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears 
But for high deeds. 

Caius. And we will make it such 
But prove we first our strength. Declare, what 
Mends 



188 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain 
True to our cause? 

Fill. Few, few, but valiant hearts ! 

what a change is here ! There was a time 
When, over all sui)remc, thy word gave law 
To nations and their rulers ; in thy presence 
The senate trembled, and the citizens 
Flocked round thee in deep reverence. Then a 

--.rd, 
A look from Cnius — a salute, a smile, 
Filled them -with pride. Each sought to be the 

friend, 
The client, ;iy, the very slave, of him, 
The people's idol ; and beholding them 
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself, 
Didst blush to see their vileness ! But thy for- 
tune 
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt 
Into dim vapor ; and the earthly god, 
So worshipped once, from his forsaken, shrines 
Down to the dust is hurled. 
Cuius. And what of this ? 
There is no power in fortune to deprive 
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart 
As meets the storm exultingly — a heart 
Whose stern delight it is to strive with fate, 
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible 
But because man is vile. A coward first 
Made her a deity. 

But say, what thoughts 
Are fostered by the people ? Have they lost 
The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name 
Of Gracchus in their hearts (reveal the truth) 
Already numbered with forgotten things ? 
Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, 
now there, 
Borne on light pinion — such the people's love ! 
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults 
Are of their miseries ; and their feebleness 
Is to their woes proportioned. Haply still 
The cecret sigh of their full hearts is thine. 
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute; 
And *hc deep paleness of their timid mien. 
And eyes in fixed despondence bent on earth, 
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name. 
Alone accuse them. They are hushed — for now 
Not one, nor two, their tyrants ; but a host 
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, 
And the patrician Romans. Yes ! and well 
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, 
For Rome is widowed ! Distant wars engage 
The noblest of her youth, by Eabius led, 
Ajid but the week remain. Hence every heart 



Sickens with voiceless terror ; and the people, 
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, 
But yet are silent. 

Cuius. I will make them heard. 
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice 
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came 
Prepared lor all ; and as I tracked the deep 
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew 
Familiar in its musings. With a voice 
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swelled ; the 

waves 
Muttered around ; heaven flashed in lightning 

forth. 
And the pale steersman trembled : I the while 
Stood on the tossing and bewildered bark. 
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds. 
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all ab- 
sorbed 
In a far deeper storm ! Around my heart, 
Gathering in secret then, my spirit's powers 
Held council with themselves ; and on my 

thoughts 
My country rose, — and I foresaw the snares, 
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, 
And my false friends, awaiting my return. 

Fulvius ! I wept , but they were tears of 

rage ! 
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought 
Of my wronged country, and of him, that brother 
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly 

cried 
" Vengeance ! " — nor found it yet. 

Ful. It is fulfilled. 

Cuitis, And how ? 

Ful. Thou Shalt be told. 

Cuius. Explain thy words. 

Ful. Then know — (incautious that I am !) 

Cuius. Why thus 
Falters thy voice ? Why speak' st thou not ? 

Ful. Forgive ! 
E'en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. 

Cuius. No ! 
True friendship, never ! 

Caius afterwards inquires what part his 
brother-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to 
adopt in their enterprises. 

His high renown — 
The glorious deeds, whereby was earned his 

name 
Of second Africanus ; and the blind, 
Deep reverence paid him by the people's hearts^ 
Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



119 



AH this disturbs me : hardly will be won 
Our day of victory, if by him withstood. 

Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou 
fear'st, 
Then be at peace. 

Caius, I understand thee not. 

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly 
waste 
Our time and words. Soon will the morning 

break, 
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return ; 
I fly to cheer them with the tidings. 

Cams. Stay ! 

Ful. And wherefore ? 

Caius. To reveal thy meaning. 

Ful. Peace ! 
I hear the sound of steps. 

This conversation is interrupted by the en- 
trance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of 
Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in 
ihe house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has 
been warned of the imminent danger which men- 
aces the family of her son from the fury of the 
patricians, who intend, on the following day, to 
abrogate the laAvs enacted by the Gracchi in fa- 
vor of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of 
Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may 
appear somewhat inconsistent with his having 
remained so long engaged in political discus- 
sion, on the threshold of their abode, without 
ever having made an inquiry after their welfare ; 
out it would be somewhat unreasonable to try 
the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a trage- 
dy) by the laws of nature. Before, however, we 
are disposed to condemn the principles which 
seem to be laid down for the delineation of Ro- 
man character in dramatic poetry, let us recol- 
lect that the general habits of the people whose 
institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur 
displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, 
and whose towering spirit was fostered to en- 
thusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have 
been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even 
tneir virtues. Shakspeare alone, without com- 
promising the dignity of his Romans, has disen- 
cumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery 
which seems to be their official garb, and has 
Btamped their features with the general attri- 
butes of human nature, without effacing the 
impress which distinguished " the men of iron " 
from the nations who "still stood before them." 

The first act concludes with the parting of 
Haius and Fulvius in w^ath and suspicion — 
Cornelia having accused the latter « f an attempt 



to seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and 
of concealing the most atrocious designs undel 
the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty 

Of liberty 
What speak' st thou, and to whom ? Thou hasi 

no shame — 
No virtue — and thy boast is, to be free ! 
O, zeal for liberty ! eternal mask 
Assumed by every crime ! 

In the second act, the death of Emilianus ia 
announced to Opimius the consul, in the pres- 
ence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accom- 
panied bj' a rumor of his having perished by 
assassination. The mysterious expressions of 
I'ulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia, imme- 
diately recur to the mind of Caius. The fol- 
lowing scene, in which his vehement emotion, 
and high sense of honor, are well contrasted 
with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, ia 
powerfully wrought up. 

Caius. Back on my thoughts the words of 
Fulvius rush, 
Like darts of fire. AH hell is in my heart ! 

{Fulvius enters.) 
Thou com'st in time. Speak, thou perfidious 

friend ! 
Scipio lies murdered on his bed of death ! — 
Who slew him ? 

Ful. Ask'st thou me ? 

Caius. Thee ! thee, who late 
Didst in such words discourse of him as now 
Assure me thou'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak ! 

Ful. If thus Ms fate doth weigh upon thy heart, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
More grateful praise and warmer thanks might 

well 
Reward the generous coiirage which hath freed 
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe. 

Cains. Tlien he was slain by thee ? 

Ful. Ungrateful friend ! 
Why dost thou tempt me ? Danger menaces 
Thy honor. Freedom's wavering light is dim ; 
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate ; 
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death 
Of infamy, another seeks thi/ fall ; 
And when one noble, one determined stroke 
To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks 
The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fama 
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade. 
Is it a cause for wailing ? Am I called 
For this a murderer ? Go ! — I say once more. 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest'' 



190 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



Caitis. I know thee now, barbarian ! Wouldst 

thou serve 
My cause with crimes ? 

Fid. And those of that proud man 
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, arethey 
To be forgotten ? Hath oblivion then 
Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work, 
The famine of Numantia ? Such a deed 
As on cur name the world's deep curses drew ! 
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betrayed. 
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs 
Back to their parents sent ? Is this forgot? 
Go, ask of Carthage ! — bid her wasted shores 
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount 
Tne terrible achievements ! At the cries, 
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those, 
The more than hundred thousand wretches, 

doomed 
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, 
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth 
In horror doth not open ! They were foea. 
They were barbarians, but unarmed, subdued, 
Weeping, imploring mercy ! And the law 
Of Roman virtue is, to spai-e the weak. 
To tamo tlie lofty ! But in other lands, 
Why should I seek for records of his crimes, 
If here the suffering people ask in vain 
A little earth to lay their bones in peace ? 
If the decree which yielded to their claims 
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal 
Thy brother's blood was shed — if this remain 
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he 
That mocked its power ? — Who to all Rome 

declared 
Thy brother's death was just, was needful ? — 

Who 
But Scipio ? And remember thou the words 
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e'en then. 
Heard by the people ! Caius, in my heart 
They have been deeply treasured. He must die, 
(Tims didst thou speak,) this tyrant ! We have 

need 
That he should perish ! I have done the deed ; 
And call'st thou 7«e his murderer ? If the blow 
Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy 

lips 
The sentence came — the crime is thine alonp. 
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey 
Thy mandate. 

Caius. Thou my friend ! I am not one 
To call a villain friend. I,et thunders, fraught 
With fate and death, awake to scatter those 
\Vho, bringing liberty through paths of blood. 
Bring chains ! — degrading Freedom's lofty self 
Belo'w e'en Slavery's level.' Say thou not. 



Wretch ! that the sentence and the guilt wer« 

mine ! 
I wished him slain ! — 'tis so — but by the axe 
Of high and public justice — that whose stroke 
On thy vile head will faU. Thou hast disgrace 
Unutterably my name : I bid thee tremble ! 

Fill. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee 
Let insult cease ! Be the deed just or guilt 
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not 
To utter more. 

Caius. And what hast thou to say ? 

Fill. That which I now suppress. 

Caius. How ! are there yet. 
Perchance, more crimes to be revealed ? 

Ful. I know not. 

Caius. Thou know'st not ? — Horror chills my 
curdling veins ; 
I dare not ask thee further. 

Ful. Thou dost well. 

Caius. What saidst thou ? 

Ful. Nothing. 

Caius. On my heart the words 
Press heavily. O, what a fearful light 
Bursts o'er my soul ! — Hast thou accomplices I 

Ful. Insensate ! ask me not. 

Caius. I must be told. 

Fid. Away ! — thou wilt repent. 

Caius. No more of this, for I loill know. 

Ful. Thou wilt? 
Ask then thy sister. 

Caius, {alone.) Ask my sister ! What ! 
Is she a murderess ? Hath my sister slain 
Her lord ? O, crime of darkest dye ! O, name 
Till now unstained, name of the Gracchi, thus 
Consigned to infamy ! — to infamy ? 
The very hair doth rise upon my head. 
Thrilled by the thought ! Where shall I find a 

place 
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains 
From this dishonored brow ? What should I do ? 
There is a voice whose deep, tremendous tones 
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, 
" Away ! — and pause not — slay thy gnilty 

sister ! " 
Voices of lost honor, of a noble line 
Disgraced, I will obey thee ! — terribly 
Tiiou call'st for blood, and thou shalt be ap- 
peased. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE 
ITALIAN POETS. 

Whoevei-. has attentively studied the work^ 
of the Italian poets, from the days of Dante ani 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 



191 



Petrarsh to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, 
must have been struck with those allusions to 
the glory and the fall, the renown and the deg- 
radation, of Italy, which give a melancholy in- 
terest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes 
of that devoted country, the warning voice of 
her bards has still been heard to prophesy the 
impending storm, and to call up such deep and 
spirit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, 
as have resounded through the land, notwith- 
standing the loudest tumults of those discords 
which have made her 

" Long, long, a bloody stage 
For petty kinglings tame, 
Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage." 

There is something very affecting in these 
Vain, though exalted aspirations after that inde- 
pendence which the Italians, as a nation, seem 
destined never to regain. The strains in which 
their high-toned feelings on this subject are re- 
corded, produce on our minds the same effect 
with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose 
melody is fraught, in our imagination, with rec- 
ollections of the green woodland, the free air, 
and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of 
the perpetual violets and zephyrs, whose cloying 
sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of 
the minor Italian poets, till we are re^dy to " die 
in aromatic pain ; " nor is our interest much more 
excited even by the everlasting laurel which in- 
spii-es the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious 
a variety of concetti, as might reasonably cause 
it to be doubted whether the beautiful liaura, or 
the emblematic tree, are the real object of the 
bard's affection ; but the moment a patriotic 
chord is struck, our feelings are awakened, and 
we find it easy to sympathize with the emotions 
of a modern Roman surrounded by the ruins 
of the Capitol ; a Venetian when contemplating 
the proud trophies won by his ancestors at By- 
zantium ; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of 
the mighty dead in the church of Santa Croce. 
It is not, perhaps, noio the time to plead, with 
any effect, the cause of Italy ; yet cannot we 
coiia\der that nation as altogether degraded, 
whose litciMMrs, from the dawn of ite majestic 
immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture 
of every generous principle and ennobling rec- 
ollection ; and whose "choice and master spir- 
its," under the most adverse circumstances, have 
tept alive a flame which may well be considered 
Bs imperishable, since the "ten thousand ty- j 
»fcnts" of the land ha e failed to quench its ! 



brightness. We present our readers with a few 
of the minor effusions, in which the indignan", 
though unavailing regrets of those who, to usa 
the words of Alfieri, are "slaves, yet still indiff* 
nant slaves," ' have been feelingly portrayed. 

The first of these productions must, in the 
original, be familiar to every reader who has 
any acquaintance with Italian literature. 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

When from the mountain's brow the gathering 
shades 
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell 
Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades 

Nor bids the universe at once farewell. 
But thou, I cry, my country ! what a night 
Spreads o'er thy glories one dark, sweeping 
paU! 
Thy thousand triumphs, Avon by valor's might 
And wisdom's voice — what now remains o 
all? 
And seest thou not th' ascending flame of war 
Burst through thy darkness, reddening fioia 
afar ? 
Is not thy misery's evidence complete ? 
But if endurance can thy fall delay. 
Still, still endure, devoted one ! and say, 
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat. 



CARLO MARIA MAGGI. 

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, 
And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first roused 
from sleep 

Startle the next ! one peril broods o'er all. 

It nought avails that Italy should plead, 
Forgetting valor, sinking in despair. 
At strangers' feet ! — our land is all too fair ; 

Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's 
speed. 

In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, 

For pardon sue ; 'tis not her agony, 

Her death alone may now appease her foes. 

Bo theirs to suffer who to combat shun ! 

But O, weak pride ! thus feeble and undone. 
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose ! 

1 " Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor Irementi." — Altieiu 



ALESSANDIIO MARCHETTI. 

Italia ! O, no more Italia now ! 

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear ; 
She "was a queen -with glory mantled — thou 

A slave, degraded, and compelled to bear. 

Chains gird thy hands and feet ; deep clouds 
of care 
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies ; 

And shadows, born of terror and despair — 
Shadows of death have dimmed thy glorious eyes. 
Italia ! O, Italia now no more ! 

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow ; 
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour 

Are changed to dirge notes ; but my deepest 
woe 
Is, that base herds of thine o%vn sons the while 
Behold thy miseries with insvilting smile. 



ALESSANDIIO PEGOLOTTI. 

She that cast down the empires of the world, 
And, in her proud, triumphal course through 
Rome, 
Dragged them, from freedom and dominion 
hurled. 
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'er- 
come; 
I see her now, dismantled of her state. 

Spoiled of her sceptre, crouching to the ground 
Beneath a hostile car — and lo ! the weight 

Of fetters her imperial neck around ! 
O that a stranger's envious hands had wrought 

This desolation ! for then I would say, 
• Vengeance, Italia ! " — in the burning thought 

Losing my grief; but 'tis th' ignoble sway 
Of vice hath bowed thee ! Discord, slothful 

ease — 
Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are 
these. 



FRANCESCO MAEIA DE CONTL 

THE SHORE OF AFRICA. 

Pilgrim ! whose steps those desert sands explore, 
"Where verdure never spreads its bright array ; 

Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore 

From Pompey's heart the lifeblood ebbed 

away. 
'Twas here, betrayed, he fell — neglected lay, 

Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone, 



Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, 
O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone ! 
Thou, stranger ! if from barbarous cUmes thy 

birth. 
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth 

Where Rome, Avith him, saw power and virtue 
die ; 
But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins. 
Then, son of heroes ! think upon thy chains, 

And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. 



JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD " BARB." 

[" It was either during the present or a future visit to the 
same friends,i that the jeu-d' esprit was produced which Mrs. 
Hemans used to call her ' sheet of forgeries ' on the use ol 
the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish 
him with some authorities from the old Englisli writers, 
proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She 
very shortly supplied him with the followiiig imitations, 
which were written down almost impromptu : the mystifi- 
cation succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until som« 
time afterwards." — Memoir, p. 43.] 

The warrior donned his well-worn garb, 

And proudly waved his crest ; 
He mounted on his jet-black barb, 

And put his lance in rest. 

Percy's Reliques. 

Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay. 
Spurred his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on 
his way. Spenser. 

Hark ! was it not the trumpet's voice I heard ? 
The soul of battle is awake within me ! 
The fate of ages and of empires hangs 
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms ? 
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed ! 
Base, idle grooms ! arc ye in league against me? 
Haste with my barb, or, by the holy saints. 
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow ! 

Massinger. 

No sooner had the pearl-shodding fingcrR oi 
the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the 
oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the 
graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cyno- 
sure of ladies' eyes — he of the dazzling breast- 
plate and swanlike plume — sprang impatiently 
from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted 
the noble barb presented to him by the Emperor 
of Aspramontania. 

Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. 

1 The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., WavertTM 
Lodge, near Liverpool. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 



193 



Seest thou yon chief whose presence seems to 

rule 
The storm of battle ? Lo ! where'er he moves 
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest — 
Fate on his sword is throned — and his white 

harb, 
As a proud courser of Apollo's chariot, 
Seems breathing iire. Potter's Mschylvs. 

O, bonnie looked my ain true knight, 

His barh so proudly reining ; 
I watched him till my tearfu' sight 

Grew amaist dim wi' straining. 

Border Minstrelsy. 

Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery 
barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. 
He's the very pink and mirror of accomplish- 
ment. Shakspeaee. 

Fair star of beauty's heaven ! to call thee mine, 
. All other joys I joyously would yield ; 
My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign. 
For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied 
field; 
For courts or camps no wish my soul would 

prove. 
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love ! 
Earl of Surrey's Poems. 

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown 
Heedless of youthful sports : I seek no more 

Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone, 
Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore. 

Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, 

Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's 
feet. Shakbpe are's Soimets. 

As a warrior clad 
In sable arms, like chaos duU and sad, 

But mounted on a barb as white 

As the fresh new-born light, — 

So the black night too soon 
Came riding on the bright and silver moon, 

Whose radiant heavenly ark 
Made all the clouds beyond her influence seem 

E'en more than doubly dark. 
Mourning, all widowed of her glorious beam. 

Cowley. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 

[ Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved 
of Mrs. Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote 
with any other view than the momentary amusement of her 
25 



own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time 
to her sister, who was then travelling in Italy. The follow 
ing extracts from this t'amiliar epistle may serve to show hel 
facility in a style of composition w*iich she latterly entirely 
discontinued. The first part alluats to a strange fancy pro 
duced by an attack of fever, the description of which had 
given rise to many pleasantries — being an imaginary voy- 
age to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that emi- 
nent old English worthy, John Evelyn. | 

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please. 
Some account of the converse you held on high 

seas 
With Evelyn, the excellent author of " Sylva," 
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa 
I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er 
In so well-rigged a ship, by so well-matched a 

pair. 
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your 

lot any 
Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of 

botany. 
And his horticultural talents are known. 
Just as weU as Canova's for fashioning stone. 

Of the vessel you seiled in, I just will remark 
That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. 
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, 
I have read very often, as doubtless have j'ou ; 
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason ; 
Of the ship moored by Trajan in Nemi's deep 

basin ; 
Of the galley (in Plutarch you'll find the de- 
scription) 
Which bore along Cydnus, the royal Egyptian ; 
Of that wonderful frigate (see " Curse of Ke- 

hama") 
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, 
And the venturous barks of Columbus and 

Gama. 
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a 
Full haK of their fame, since your voyage to 

China, 
(I'm astonished no shocking disaster befell,) 
In that swift-sailing first-rate — a cocoa-nut 
shell ! 

I hope, my dear H., that you touched at Loo 

Choo, 
That abode of a people so gentle and true. 
Who with arms and with money have nothing 

to do. 
How calm must their lives be ! so free from all 

fears 
Of running in debt, or of running on spears ! 
O dear ! what an Eden ! — a land without money ! 
It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey. 



i94 



ri'ALIAN LITERATURE. 

k. 



Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book 
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and called " Lalla 
Rookh." 

But, of all the enjoyments you have, none 

M'ould e'er be 
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, 
Of wliose travels — related in elegant phrases — 
1 have seen many extracts and heard many 

praises, 
And nave copied (you know I let nothing es- 
cape) 
His striking account of the frozen North Cape. 
I think 'twas in his works I read long ago 
(I ve not the best memory for dates, as you 

know) 
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were 

stored, 
Which took lire (I suppose being made but of 

board) 
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero. 
Where the cold was some iifty degrees below zero, 
rhen from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out. 
And in streams, just like lava, meandered about. 
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, 
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. 
W^hen my Jirst for a moment had hardened my 

last. 
My second burst out, and all melted as fast ; 
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on. 
But I quite forget which of the elements won. 

But a truce with all joking — I hope you'll 

excuse me. 
Since I know you still love to instruct and 

amuse me. 
For hastily putting a few questions down. 
To Avhich answers from you all my wishes will 

crown ; 
For you know I'm so fond of the land of Co- 

rinne 
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts 

within, 
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wit- 
tily, 
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy ; 
From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old 

tour. 
To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four. 
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances 
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. 
— Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think 

it a bore,) 
The literal state of the famed Biicentaur, 



And whether the horses, that once were tho 

sun's. 
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy 

bronze ; 
For some travellers say one thing, and some say 

another, 
And I can't find out Avhich, they all make such 

a pother. 
O, another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, 
Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? 
These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow. 
For Venice must interest all — even now. 

These points being settled, I ask for no more 
hence, 
But should wish for a few observations £rom 

Florence. 
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti 
Are finished ; if not, 'tis a shame for the city 
To let one for ages — was e'er such a thing ? — 
Its entablature want, and the other its wing. 
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at 

Easter, 
And watch her swift flight, when the priests 

have released her) 
Is a turtle, or ring dove, or but a ?ooof?-pigeon, 
Which makes people gulls in the name of Re- 
ligion ? 
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa 
Are cut down or not ; for this, too, is a Cosa 
About which I'm anxious — as also to know 
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, 
Came back (above all, don't forget this to men- 
tion) 
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian 

Since I wrote the above, I by chance have 
found out, 

That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond 
doubt ; 

So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pur- 
suing. 

Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing r 

— When to Naples you get, let me know, if 
you will. 

If the Acqua Toff'ana's in fashion there still ; 

For, not to fatigue you with needlc.'^s verbosity, 

'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. 

I should like to have also, and not written shab- 
bily, 

Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile ; 

And whether the tomb, which is neai Sann^ 
zaro's. 

Is decided by you to be really Maro's. 



DARTMOOR. 



191! 



DARTMOOR. 

A PRIZE POEM. 

[In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best pfiem on " Dart 
moor; " and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the following June, the |)alui was 
awarded to Mrs. Henians for the composition which follows. 
She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success: — 
" VA'hat with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the childre. 

when the prize was announced to them yesterday Tlie Bishop's kind communication put us ii 

possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive tht 
Secretary's letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private 
letter, with which, although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success 
which, from so distinguished a writer as Mr. Croly, (of course you have read his poem of Paris,) cannot but be highli 
gratifying."] 

" Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime. 
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore. 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore." Campbell. 

" May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore 
• Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar. 

And human charity, and social love." Wordsworth. 



Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile ; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, 
And send on every breeze a voice of power ; 
Hath Desolation reared herself a throne, 
And marked a pathless region for her own ? 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore ; 
Though not a hostile step thy heath flowers bent 
When empires tottered, and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had stilled life's busy murmurs on the wind, 
And, flushed with power in daring pride's excess, 
Stamped on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given. 
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, 'midst thy moun- 
tains rude. 
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, 
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, 
A mourner circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea, 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare 
But man has left his lingering traces there ! 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 
[n gloom and silence fearfully profound, 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, ap amidst infinity, a] one, 



And nought of life be near, his camel's treao 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, reared by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates thf 

scene, 
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty passed, 
Not without record ; though the desert blast. 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept awaj 
The proud creations reared to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, 
Who shall unfold thine annals ? — who shall tell 
If on thj' soil the sons of heroes fell. 
In those far ages which have left no trace, 
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race ? 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs who passed without theil 

praise, 
Thoumightsthavereared the valiant and the free, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled,* 

1 "In some parts of Dartmoor, • the surface is thickly 
strewed with stones, which in many instances appear to 
have been collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hil 
locks, as if in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stone 
barrows of Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot an(J 
Grampian Hills, and those in Cornwall." — See Cooke' 
Topographical Survey of Devonshire, 



But hallowed by that instinct which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bowed n^any a crest, and shattered many a 

throne, 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, 
With what they hide — their shrined and treas- 
ured dust. 
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her 

mould ; 
But still these nameless chronicles of death. 
Midst the deep silence of th' unpeopled heath. 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature with the forms 
Of the crowned hills beyond, the dwellings of 
the storms. 

Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, 
Guardin g the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath ? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest. 
Thus rudely pillowed, on the desert's breast ? 
Doth the sword sleep beside them ? Hath there 

been 
A sound of battle 'midst the silent scene 
Where now the flocks repose ? — did the scythed 

car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war ? 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain. 
And the red combat of the mountain plain ? 

It may be thus : — the vestiges of strife. 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell ' 
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell 
To be fjrgotten. Vain the warrior's pride. 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and 

died.* 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
The eternal stars of night have witnessed 

here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,' 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 

1 Flint arrow heads have occasionally been found upon 
Dartmoor. 

- " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Mtilti ; sed omnes ill.ichtymabiles 
UrgenHir, ignotique long! 
Nocte, careiit quia vate sacro.'' — HoRiCE. 
" They had no poet, and they died." — Pope's Transla- 
ton. 
3 On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one 



Propped on its granite pillars, whence th< 

rains 
And pure, bright dews have laved the crimson 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood ; for here, of yore, 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore. 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low. 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe — 
Here, at dim midnight* through the haunted 

shade. 
On Druid harps the quivering moonbeam played, 
And spells were breathed, that filled the deep- 
ening gloom 
With the pale, shadoAvy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night 
Bade the red cairn fii'es blaze from every height,* 
Like battle signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies, 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war gods of the 
North. 

But viilder sounds were there — th' imploring 

cry 
That woke the forest's echo in reply. 
But not the heart's ! Unmoved the wizard 

train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in vain his glance 
Looked up, appealing to the blue expanse. 
Where in their calm immortal beauty shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan. 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebbed away; 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red. 
And the pale moon gleamed paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here ? — where still 

ness dwells 
'Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells. 
Thus undisturbed ? O, long the gulf of time 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime. 
And earth no vestige of their path retains. 
Save such as these, which strew her lonelies< 

plains 

of which is a Cromlech, whose .hree rough pillars of granite 
support a ponderous table stone, and form a kind of large 
irregular tripod. 

* In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on al! 
the cairns and eminencesaround, by priests, carrying sacred 
torches. All the household fires were previously extin- 
guished, and those who were thought worthy of such f 
privilege were allowed to relight them witli a flamini^ 
brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn fire 



DARTMOOR. 



m 



With records of man's conflicts and his doom, 
His spirit and his dust — the altar and the tomb. 

But ages rolled away ; and England stood 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood; 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeemed and joyous, drank 
The lifeblood of her heroes, as they sank 
On the red fields they won ; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave. 

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war ' 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar 
In bondage pined ; the spell-deluded throng 
Dragged at ambition's chariot wheels so long 
To die — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march hath rocked the an- 
cient thrones 
And temples of the world — the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes — 
Were prisoners here. And there were some 

whose dreams 
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain 

streams, 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine ; 
And of those mothers who had watched and wept. 
When on the field th' unsheltered conscript 

slept, 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some 

were there 
Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair ; 
Who, in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane. 
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 

And there was mirth, too ! — strange and sav- 
age mirth. 

More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 

The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that 
spring 

From minds for which there is no sacred thing ; 

And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee — 

The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 



1 The Freni'.h prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, 
"ere confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 



But still, howe'er the soul's disguise wer« 
worn, 
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn. 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show. 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — woe. 

Yet, was this all ? Amidst the dungeon gloom, 
The void, the stillness of the captive's doom. 
Were there no deeper thoughts ? And that 

dark power 
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delayed, 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 
Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — Remorse ? 

Yes ! as the knight calls forth from sea and 
sky. 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, 
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day 
In light and sound are hurrying on their way : 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart. 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might 

start. 
Called up by solitude, each nerve to thrill 
With accents heard not, save when all is stiU. J 

The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain 
Crushed the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute when sierras to the war whoop rung, 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung 
From the south's marble cities ; hushed 'midrf, 

cries 
That told the heavens of mortal agonies ; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last 
In concentrated thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewildered 

mind, 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen. 
Where nature cast its lot 'midst peasant men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blen* 
The earthquake power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might — when the billow's awful rush was o'er 
Which tossed its wreck upon the storm-beat 

shore. 
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried. 
Searched by remorse, by anguish purified — 
Have fixed, at length, its troubled hopes and! 

fears 
On the far world, seen brightest throiigh on-' 

tears ; 



And, in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declare, 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense 
Fills the dim eye of trembhng penitence, 
Have turned to Ilim whose bow is in the cloud, 
Around life's limits gathering as a shroud — 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows. 
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that death bed ? Who can tell 
Its brief sad talc, on which the soul might 

dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons ? Who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt re- 
pelled — 
The agony of jirayer — the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years, 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might ? 
He, through the storm who looked, and there 
was light ! 

That scene is closed — that wild, tumultuous 
breast. 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest ! 
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife. 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 
And days, prepared a brighter course to run. 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north. 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath. 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams. 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the 

mind, 
The warm and living spirit of mankind. 
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted 

heart 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, 
Peopling with beauty widowed homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years, 
Gathei-ing her sons once more, and from the 

tears 
Of the dim past but winning purer light, 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 
clinic. 
In silence gliding with the stream of time. 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er Lsles and seas. 



And as Heaven's breath called forth, with genia. 

power. 
From the dry wand tlie almond's living floweu 
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows, 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up th' exulting voice 
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor ! where no blithe reaper'i 

song 
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along, 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain soun e 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark. 
And of some nameless combat; hope's bright 

eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture dressed. 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage smoke at dewy morn, 
Rise in blue wreatiis above the flowering thorn, 
And 'midst thy hamlet shades, the imbosomed 

spire 
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest 

fire. 

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmj 

close 
Of labor's day, the herald of repose. 
Which gathers hearts in peace ; while sociai 

mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; 
While peasant songs are on the joyous gales, 
And merry England's voice floats up from all 

her vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt 

hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
O, if there still be melody on earth 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew 

birth. 
When angel steps their paths rejoicing trod. 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky * 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, 
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung. 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on hill 

tongue. 

1 In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great nationa 
school house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educat* 
the children of convicts. . 




&«X\^-- 



\/fHkp ^^ntl^ Ihe spLril uiui Hu' pnwrr of yovi> ' 
7 ■ ' ..luient lulls' 1m- lirartl nir^- ni.'v' 



WELSH MELODIES. 



199 



And such shall be thy music, when the cells, 
Wliere Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, 

dwells, 
(And, to wild strength by despertttion wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reached its innocence, 
Ere that soft rose bloom of the soul be fled. 
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, 
" Mercy, not sacrifice ! " and, when of old 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolled, 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

"When some crowned conqueror, o'er a tram- 
pled world 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurled, 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere, 
Silence behind — before him, flight and fear ! 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing 

wheels. 
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will. 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still, 
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ? 
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains ? 
And shall no harmony of softer close 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows. 
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave. 
Bless t,ie green shores its gentle currents lave ? 



O, there are loftier themes, for him whose jyei 
Have searched the depths of life's realities, 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
Wheeling the monarch victor fast and far ; 
There are more noble strains than those vvhich 

swell 
The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell ! 

Ye prophet bards, who sat in eider days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! ye whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on 

high, 
Burst in the strength of immortality \ 
O, not alone, those haunted groves among. 
Of conquering hosts, of empires crushed, y6 

sung, 
But of that spirit destined to explore, 
With the bright dayspring, every distant shore, 
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed. 
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed ; 
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's 

gloom, 
And pour eternal starlight o'er the tomb 

And blessed and hallowed be its haunts ! for 

there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair ! 
There hath th' immortal spark for heaven been 

nursed ; 
There from the rock the springs of life have 

burst 
Quenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that 

rise 
Warm from the source of human sympathies — 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent waste. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



THE HARP OF WALES. 

fKT<ODUCTOBT STANZAS, ItTSCBIBED TO THE KCTHIN WELSH 
HTERARY SOCIETY. 

Haep of the mountain land ! sound forth again 
As when the foaming Hirlas ' horn was 
crowned, 
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, 
And the bright mead at Owain's feast went 
round : 

I Hirlas, from Mr, long, and ^ las. blue or azure. 



Wake with the spirit and the power of yore ! 
Harp of the ancient hills ! be heard once more 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Roman 
came 
O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars : 
Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame 
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores 
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea — 
Ring out, thou harp ! he could not silenct 
thee. 



200 



WELSH MELODIES. 



Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon passed, 

His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; ' 
But thou vert heard above the trumpet's blast, 
E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the 
vales! 
Thme Avas the voice that cheered the brave and 

free ; 
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and 
thee. 

Those were dark years ! — They saw the valiant 
faU, 
The rank weeds gathering round the chief- 
tain's board, 
The hearth left lonely in the ruined hall — 

Yet power was thine — a gift in every chord ! 
Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 
Thou noble harp ! thy tones are not to cease ! 



DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING 
OF THE ROMANS. 

By the dread and viewless powers 

Whom the storms and seas obey, 
From the Dark Isle's ^ mystic bowers, 

Romans ! o'er the deep awaj' ! 
'ITiink ye, 'tis but nature's gloom 

O'er our shadowy coast which broods ? 
By the altar and the tomb, 

Shun these haunted solitudes ! 

Know ye Mona's awful spells ? 

She the rolling orbs can stay ! 
She the mighty grave compels 

Back to yield its fettered prey ! 
Fear ye not the lightning stroke ? 

Mark ye not the fiery sky ? 
Hence ! — around our central oak 

Gods are gathering — Romans, fly ! 



THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.^ 

Where are they, those green fairy islands, re- 
posing 
In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast ? 

1 Er} ri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon Mountains. 

2 Ynys Dyioyll, or the Dark Island — an ancient name for 
Anglesey. 

3 The " Green Islands of Ocean," or " Green Spots of 
Jie Floods," called in the Triads " Gwerddonan Llion," 
(respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been 
preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the 
Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not 
enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this 



What spirit, the things which are hidden di»- 

closing. 
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of 

rest? 

O, lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages 
The mighty have sought them, undaunted iu 

faith ; 
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and 

sages. 
For the guide to those realms of the bless6d ia 

death. 

Where are they, the high-minded children of 

glory, 
Who steered for those distant green spots on 

the wave? 
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild 

story. 
In the fields of their country they found not a 

grave. 

Perchance they repose where the summer breeze 

gathers 
From the flowers of each vale immortality's 

breath ; 
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of 

their fathers — 
For the guide to those realms of the bless6d is 

death. 



THE SEA SONG OF GAFRAN.« 

Watch ye well ! The moon is shrouded 

On her bright throne ; 
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, 

Waves make wild moan. 
'Tis no night of hearth fires glowing, 
And gay songs and wine cups flowing ; 
But of winds, in darkness blowing 

O'er seas unknown ! 

In the dwellings of our fathers, 

Round the glad blaze, 
Now the festive circle gathers 

With harps and lays ; 

paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chief- 
tain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family 
to discover these islands ; but they were never heard o\ 
afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with 
his twelve bards, and the e.xpedition of Madoc, were called 
the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain. — 
See W. O. Puqke's Cambrian Biography ; aiso Cambri 
Briton, i. 124. 
* See note to the " Green Isles of Ocean '* 



WELSH MELODIES. 



SO** 



Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, 
Steps are bounding, bards are singing, 
- Ay ! the hour to all is bringing 
Peace, joy, or praise, — 

Save to us, our nightwatch keeping, 

Storm winds to brave. 
While the very sea bird sleeping 

Rests in its cave ! 
Think of us when hearths are beaming. 
Think of us when mead is streaming. 
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming 

On the dark wave ! 



THE HERLAS HORN. 

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the 
wave* 
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of 
the sea ; 
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the 
brave. 
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! 
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the 
fight, 
A beam, like heaven's lightning,* flashed over 
the field ; 
To those who came rushing as storms in their 
might. 
Who have shivered the helmet, and cloven 
the shield ; 
The sound of whose strife was Hke oceans afar. 
When lances were red from the harvest of war. 

Fill high the blue hirlas ! O cup-bearer, fill 

For the lords of the field in their festival's hour. 
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill 

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its 
power : 
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth 
horn 

Of honor and mirth,' for the conflict is o'er ; 
And round let the golden-tipped hirlas be borne 

To the lion defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, 
Who rushed to the field where the glory was won, 
As eagles that soar from their cliff's to the sun. 

1 " Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose 
gloss is like the waves of the sea ; whose green handles show 
the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold." — From the 
Wirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeiliog. 

2 " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din 
of arms, their furious onset, loud as in tlie battle of Bangor, 
Where fire flashed out of their spears ? " — From the same 

8 "Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn — badge of honor 
and mirth." ^ From the same. 
26 



Fill higher the hirlas ! forgetting not those 
Who shared its bright draught in the days 
which are fled ! 
Though cold on their mountains the valiant 
repose. 
Their lot shall be lovely — renown to the deadi 
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be 
strung. 
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crowned. 
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, 
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the 
sound. 
The free winds of Maelor* shaU swell with their 

name. 
And Owain's rich hirlas be filled to their fame. 



THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. 

The HaU of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night ; * 
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light ; 
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er. 
The blaze of its hearth shaU. give welcome no 
more ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still ; 
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill I 
Be silent forever, thou desolate scene. 
Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare ; 
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there ! 
O, where are the warriors who circled its board i 
— The grass will soon wave where the mead 

cup was poured ! 
The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night. 
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright ! 
I moiirn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief j 
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief 

* Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, ae- 
cording to the modern division. 

B " The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 
Without fire, without bed — 
I must weep a while, and then be silent. 

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 
Without fire, without being lighted — 
Be thou encircled with spreading silence ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, 
Since he that owned it is no more — 
Ah Death ! it will be but a short time he will leaw 
me. 

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night. 
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, 
Without its lord, without company, without the cit 
cling feasts ! " 

Owkn's Heroic Elegies cf Llywarch Hen, 



THE LAJMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. 

[Llywarcli lien, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard 
andcliief of llie times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, sup- 
posed to be a part of tlie present Cumberland. Having 
sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of 
most of his sons, in die une(|ual contest mamtained by the 
North Britons against tlie growing power of the Saxons, 
Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek 
refuge in Wales. He tliere found an asylum for some time 
In the residence of CynJdylan, Princ« of Powys, whose fall 
ne pathetically laments in one of liis poems. These are still 
extant ; and liis clcpy on old age and the loss of his sons is 
remarkable for its simplicity and beauty. — See Cambrian 
Biography, and Owew's Heroic Elegies and otlier Poems of 
liytoarch Hen.] 

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is 

ringing 
With song, and the hills are all mantled with 

bloom ; 
But fairer than aught -which the summer is 

bringing, 
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! 
O, why should I live to hear music resounding. 
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave ? 
Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps 

surrounding ? 

— My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of 

your grave ! 

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, 
My spirit aU wrapped in the past as a dream ! 
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,' 
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad 

beam ; 
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! 

— O grave ! why refuse to the aged thy bed, 
When valor's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping. 
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to 

the dead ! 

Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your 

bearing, 
As on to the fields of your glory ye trod ! 
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain 

wearing, 
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the 

sod!* 
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, 
Which rouses ye not, O my lonely ! my brave ! 

1 « What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me 

BOW." 

a << Four and twenty sons to me have been 

Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." 
Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 
Tbe golden chain, as a badge of honor, worn by heroes, 



When warriors and chiefs to their proud steedl 

are bounding, 
I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on y«w 

grave ! ^ 



GRUFYDD'S FEAST. 

[" Grufydd ab Rhys abTewdwT, having resisted the Eng- 
lish successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained 
from them an honorable peace, made a great feast at his 
palace in Yslrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To lliis feast, 
which was continued for forty days, lie invited all who would 
come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys, the Dekeuharth, Gla*- 
morgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he 
prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors ; with 
every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song ; thus 
patronizing the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, 
all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards 
sent away all those who had excelled in them with honor 
able gifts." — Cambrian Biography.] 

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the 

brave. 
By the bright festal torches around us that wave I 
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall. 
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the 

wall! 
There is peace in the land we have battled 

to save : 
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine cup foam 

high,* 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to 

die! 

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal 

for fight. 
With the bees' sunny nectar now sparkle in 

light; 5 
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness bo 

crowned. 
For the strong hearts in combat that leaped at 

its sound ! 
Like the biUows' dark swell was the path of 

their might. 
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine cup on 

high, 
That those may rejoice who have feared not to 

die I 

is frequently alluded to in tbe works of the ancient Briti^k 
bards. 

8 •' Hardly has the snow covered the vale. 

When the warriors are hastening to the battis 
I do not go, I am hindered by infirmity." 

Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 
* Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in tht 
poems of the ancient British bards. 

6 The horn was used for two purposes — to sou&d thi 
alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



203 



And wake ye the children of song from their 

dreams, 
On Maelor's wild hills and by Dyfed's fair 

streams ! ' 
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty 

and free, 
Which shall flow down the waves of long ages 

to bo. 
Shsathe the sword which hath given them 

unperishing themes, 
And pour the bright mead: let the wine cup 

foam liigh. 
That those may rejoice Avho have feared not to 

die! 



THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. 

When the last flush of eve is dying 

On boundless lakes afar that shine ; 
When winds amidst the palms are sighing. 

And fragrance breathes from every pine ; ' 
When stars through cypress boughs are gleam- 
ing, 

And fireflies wander bright and free, 
Still of thj' harps, thy mountains dreaming. 

My thoughts, Avild Cambria ! dwell with thee ! 

Alone o'er green savannas roving. 

Where some broad stream in silence flows. 
Or through th' eternal forests moving. 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier could the weary-hoarted 

Look on his own blue hills and die ! 



TALIESIN'S PROPHECY. 

[A prophecy of Tallesin relating to the ancient Britons is 
Etill extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the 
following effect : — 

" Their God they shall worship, 
Their language they shall retain, 
Their land they shall lose, 
Except wild Wales."] 

A VOICE from time departed yet floats thy hills 

among, 
O Cambria I thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin 

sung : 

1 Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of 
n'ater,) the modern Pembrokeshire. 

2 The aromatic odor of the pine has frequently been men- 
tioned by travellers. 



" The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul. 

The clouds which mantle things unseen away 
before me roll, 

A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit 
passed, 

A rushing sound from days to be swells fitfiU 
in the blast. 

And tells me that forever shall live the lofty 
tongue 

To which the harp of IMona's woods by free- 
dom's hand was strung. 

" Green island of the mighty ! ^ I see thine 

ancient race 
Driven from their fathers' realm to make the 

rocks their dwelling-place 1 
I see from Uthyr's •• kingdom the sceptre pass 

away, 
And many a line of bards, and chiefs, and prince- 
ly men decay. 
But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their 

sovereign forms. 
And wear the crown to which is given dominion 

o'er the storms. 
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty 

tongue 
To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom'! 

hand was strung 1 '' 



OWEN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG. 

Saw ye the blazing star ? * 

The heavens looked down on freedom's war, 

And lit her torch on high ! 
Bright on the dragon crest ® 
It tells that glory's wing shall rest, 

When warriors meet to die ' 

Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 
And vengeance in its flame ; 

3 Tnys y Cedcim, or Isle of the Mighty — an ancient nama 
given to Britain. 

« Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to havt 
been the father of Arthur. 

6 The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing 
star, which the bards inter|>reted as an omen favorable to 
the cause of Glendwr. It served to infupe spirit into the 
minds of a superstitious people ; the first success of tk-aix 
chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigor to their 
actions. — Pennant. 

« Owen Glendwr styled himself the Dragon ; a name he 
assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over the 
Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a 
dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge ; and oa 
that account ^ became a favorite on > with tlie Welsh. •• 



Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair 

Of conquest and of fame, • 
And swell the rushing mountain air 

With songs to Glendwr's name. 

At the dead hour of night, 

Marked ye how each majestic height 

Burned in its awful beams ? 
Red shone th' eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose, 

Was full of glorious dreams ! 
O eagles of the battle,' rise ! 

The hope of Gwj'nedd* wakes ! 
It is your banner in the skies 

Through each dark cloud which breaks, 
And mantles with triumphal dyes 

Your thousand hiUs and lakes ! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur as of swelling seas ! 

The Saxon on his way ! 
Lo ! spear, and shield, and lance, 
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance, 

Reflected to the day ! 
But who the torrent wave compels 

A conqueror's chain to bear ? 
Let those who wake the soul that dwells 

On our free winds beware ! 
The greenest and the loveliest dells 

May be the lion's lair ! 

Of us they told, the seers. 

And monarch bards of elder years, 

Who walked on earth as powers ! 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of might and mystery reigns, 

To guard our mountain towers ! 
— In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay : * 

Before his gifted sight, 
The march of ages passed away 

With hero footsteps bright ; 
But proudest in that long array 

Was Glendwr's path of light ! 



PRINCE MADOC'S FAREWELL. 
Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 

On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep ? 
Too fair is the sight for a wanderer, whose way 

Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep ! 

1 "Bring the horn to Tudwrou, the EagU of Battles." — 
Bee the Hirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a 
tery favorite image with the ancient Welsh poets. 

2 Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales. 

* Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed bis 



Fall, shadows of twilight ! and veil the green 

shore. 
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! 

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of tha 

land 
Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind 

is borne ? 
Be hushed, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the hand 

Of minstrel with melody greet my return. 
— No ! no ! — let your echoes still float on the 

breeze. 
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest 

of seas ! 

'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth 
Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial ia 
nigh; 
Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth 
A name and a spirit that never shall die. 
My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign ; 
But my soul's quenchless fire, my country ! 
is thine. 



CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH. 

[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme 
comm.-'id of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the 
purpose of opposing Caesar, under the title of Elected Chief 
of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of 
Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, 
the subsequent departure of Caesar they considered as a cause 
of triumph ; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an 
assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose 
of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing. 
Cambrian Biography.} 

Fbom the glowing southern regions, 

Where the sun god makes his dwelling. 

Came the Roman's crested legions 

O'er the deep, round Britain swelling. 

The wave grew dazzling as he passed, 

With light from spear and helmet cast ; 

And sounds in every rushing blast 
Of a conqueror's march were telling. 

But his eagle's royal pinion, 

Bowing earth beneath its glory. 
Could not shadow with dominion 

Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! 

prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst th« 
mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient 
prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, 
and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of bit 
followers. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



209 



Back from their cloudy realm it flies, 
To float in light through softer skies ; 
O, chainless winds of heaven, arise ! 
Bear a vanquished vv^orld the story ! 

Lords of earth ! to Rome returning, 
Tell how Britain combat wages, 

How Caswallon's soul is burning 
When the storm of battle rages ! 

And ye that shrine high deeds in song, 

O holy and immortal throng ! 

The brightness of his name prolong. 
As a torch to stream through ages ! 



HOWEL'S SONG. 

[HowEL ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard o 
the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by 
him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, 
is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. 
The ruins of Myfanwy's residence, Castle Dinas Brln, may 
yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] 

Press on, my steed ! I hear the swell ' 
Of Valle Crucis' vesper bell, 
Sweet floating from the holy dell 

O'er woods and waters rouiid. 
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now. 
From Dinas Bran's majestic brow. 
Looks o'er the fairy world below, 

And listens to the sound ! 

1 feel her presence on the scene ! 

The summer air is more serene, 

The deep woods wave in richer green, 

The wave more gently flows ! 
O fair as ocean's curling foam ! * 
Lo ! Avith the balmy hour I come — 
The hour that brings the wanderer home, 

The weary to repose ! 

Haste ! on each mountain's darkening crest 

The glow hath died, the shadows rest ; 

The twilight star on Deva's breast 

Gleams tremulously bright ; 
\ 

1 " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine, high-bred steed, 
\ipon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry- 
uower bli jom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong 
long-hanim'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high 
land of BrSLn." 

2 " My loving heart sinks with grief without thy sup- 
port, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves ! 

. I know that this pain will avail me nothing 
towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is 
Dright as tlie flowers of the hawthorn ! " — Howel's Ode to 
Mijfanwy 



Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! 
Though scorn may wound me from her eye, 
O, better by the sun to die. 
Than live in rayless night ! 



THE MOUNTAIN FIRES. 

[" The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Cotlaer- 
thi) on November eve is said to be a traditional memorial 
of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salis- 
bury Plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and 
had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new year." 
— Cambro-Briton. 

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen 
through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and 
fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly 
picturesque.] 

Light the hills ! till heaven is glowing 

As with some red meteor's rays ! 
Winds of night, though rudely blowing. 

Shall but fan the beacon blaze. 
Light the hills ! till flames are streaming 

From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep,' 
To the waves round Mona gleaming. 

Where the Roman tracked the deep ! 

Be the mountain watchfires heightened, 

Pile them to the stormy sky ! 
Till each torrent wave is brightened, 

Kindling as it rushes by. 
Now each rock, the mist's high dwelling, 

Towers in reddening light sublime ; 
Heap the flames ! around them telling 

Tales of Cambria's elder time. 

Thus our sires, the fearless hearted, 

Many a solemn vigil kept, 
When, in ages long departed. 

O'er the noble dead they wept. 
In the winds we hear their voices — 

" Sons ! though yours a brighter lot, 
When the mountain land rejoices. 

Be her mighty unforgot ! " 



ERYRI WEN. 

[" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as 
Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It ia 
still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake 
inspired, as mucli as if he had taken a nap on the hill of 
Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to 
the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to theii; 
title, that of Lord of Snowdon." —Pennant.] 

Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, 
With heaven's own azure crowned ! 

8 Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mekl 
the conspicuous place, or object. 



106 



WELSH MELODIES. 



Wlio called thee — what thou shalt be still, 
White Snowdon ! - holy ground. 

They fabled not, thy t>ons Avho told 

Of the dread jiovvcr enshrined 
Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, 

And on thy rushing wind ! 

It sliadowcd o'er thy silent height, 

It filled thy chainlcss air, 
Deep thoughts of majesty and might 

Forever breathing there. 

Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell 

Yet holds unbroken sway, 
As -when on that wild rock it fell 

Where Merddin Emrys lay.' 

Though from their stormy haunts of yore 

Thine eagles long have flown,' 
As proud a flight the soul shall soar 

Yet from thy mountain throne ! 

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams ! 

And make the snows thy crest ! 
The sunlight of immortal dreams 

Around thee still shall rest. 

Eryri ! temple of the bard ! 

And fortress of the free ! 
'Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, 

Their spirit dwells with thee ! 



CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR 
MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.^ 

Raise ye the sword ! let the death stroke be 

given ! 
0, swilt may it fall as the lightning of heaven ! 

1 Dinas Emrys, (tlie fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated 
rock aniiiiiEst tlie moiiiuain.s of Snowdon, is said to be so 
railed frmn liaving been the residence of Merddin Emrys, 
called by the Latins iMeiiinns Anibrosiua, the celebrated 
l^oplict and magician ; and there, tradition says, he wrote 
his prophecies concerning the fnture state of the Britons. 

Tliere is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, 
on the ascent of Pnowdon, called M.en da yr Arddu,, the 
black stone of Arddii. It is said, that if two persons were 
to sleep a niglit on this stone, in the morning one would find 
Himself endowed willi the gift of poetry, and the other would 
Secome insane. — Williams's Observations on the Snowdon 
MoKnlains. 

2 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these moun- 
tains, that eaqlas have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of 
their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, 
Oiough very rarely, anionget *fce precipices. — Williams's 
Observations on the Su"iBilon JMouniains. 

3 Tliis sanguinary ileed is not attested by any historian of 



So shall our spirits be free as our strains — 
The children of song may not languish in chains ! 

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest 
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast ? 
Red with their blood do her mountain streams 

flow, 
And think ye that still we would linger below ? 

Rest, ye brave dead ! 'midst the hills of your 
sires : 

O, who would not slumber when freedom ex- 
pires ? 

Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain — 

The children of song may not breathe in the 
chain ! 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.* 

The hall of harps is lone to-night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth ; 
It hath no mead, it hath no light ; 

No voice of melody, no sound of mirth ! 

The bow lies broken on the floor 

Whence the free step is gone ; 
The pilgrim turns him from the door 

Where minstrel blood hath stained the thresh 
old stone. 

" And I, too, go ; mj' wound is deep ; 

My brethren long have died ; 
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 

Wmds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of 
pride ! 

" Bear it where, on his battle plain, 

Beneath the setting sun. 
He counts my country's noble slain — 

Say to him — Saxon, think not all is won. 

'« Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, 

The minstrel's chainless hand : 
Dreamer ! that numbercst w'ith the dead 

The burning spirit of the mountain land ! 

"Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased. 

The soul of song is flown ? 
Think'st thou it woke to croAvn the feast, 

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone ? 

credit. And it deser\'es to be also noticed, that none ot the 
bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allu- 
sion to such an event. — Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 195. 

* At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards 
by Edward the First 



WELSH MELODIES. 



202 



No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood ! 

We leave it pure and free ; 
riiough huslicd a while, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

" We leave it 'midst our country's woe — 

The birthright of her breast ; 
We leave it as we leave the snow 

Bright and eternal on Eryri's crest. 

" We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon oiu- children's breath ; 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell — 

The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death." 

He dies ; but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; 
And this is yet Aneurin's ' land — 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of 
pride ! 



THE FAIR ISLE.' 

FOB THE MBLODY CALLED THE "WELSH OEOUITD." 

[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, 
always accompanied the army when it marched into an 
snemy's country ; and, while it was preparing for battle or 
dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called 
Unbennaelh Pnjdain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been 
conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the 
Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by 
their ancestors, who were driven into a comer of it by their 
Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share 
of the spoils, the hard, dit the performance of this song, was 
rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained. — 
Jones's Histurical Account of the Welsh Bards.} 



Sons of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time 

Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your 

clime ; 
All that its eagles behold in their flight 
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled 

height. 
Though from your race that proud birthright be 

torn, 
Jnquenched is the spirit for monarchy born. 

CHORUS. 

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us a while. 
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle. 

* Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 
2 Vnys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, 
mi signifies fair or beautiful isle. 



Ages may roll ere your children regain 
The land for which heroes have perished in vain ; 
Yet in the sound of your names shall be power, 
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, 
Your Britain shall sit on tlip throne of the deep. 

CHORUS. 

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that --n tlio 
summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation re- 
sembling a couch ; and tliat whoever should pass a night in 
that hollow would be found in the morning either dead, in 
a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] 

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their 
dwelling, 
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the 
cloud ; 
Around it forever deep music is swelling, 

The voice of the mountain wind, solemn and 
loud. 
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully stream- 
ing. 
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled theii 
moan ; 
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly 
gleaming ; 
And I met the dread gloom of its grandem 
alone. 

I lay there in silence — a spirit came o'er me ) 
Man's tongue hath no language to speak what 
I saw ; 
Things glorious, unearthly, passed floating be- 
fore me. 
And my heart almost fainted with rapture 
and aAve. 
I viewed the dread beings around us that hover, 
Though veiled by the mists of mortalit5''8 
breath ; 
And I called upon darkness the vicion to cover, 
For a strife was within me of madness and 
death. 

I saw them — the powers of the wind and the 
ocean. 
The rush of w^hose pinion bears onward the 
storms : 



208 



THE VESPERS OF>i PALERMO. 



Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was 
their motion — 
I felt their dim presence, but knew not their 
forms ! 
I saw them — the mighty of ages departed — 
The dead were around me that night on the 
hiU: 
From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance 
they darted, — 
There was hght on my soul, but my heart's 
blood was chill. 

[" The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs. 
Ilemans to the public as a song writer, had already made 
their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the 
melody of their numbers — in particular, the song to the 
well-known air, ' Ar hyd y nos.' Her fine feeling for 
music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally 
excelled, could she have bestowed tlie time and patient labor 
requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficul- 
ties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of 
measures, but also of her words ; and although, in speaking 
of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later 
ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further 



I saw what man looks on, and dies — but my spirit 
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through 
that hour ; 
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power ! 
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud 
crested. 
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in ,the sun ; 
But O, what new glory all nature invested. 
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty 
was won ! 

clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in 
outline, waiting for the musician's coloring hand, they must 
be all praised as flowing and expressive ; and it is needlesa 
to remind the reader how many of them, united with hel 
sister's music, have obtained the utmost popularity. Sha 
had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, 
Emd the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient 
Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But 
it was an instinct with Airs. Hemans to catch the picturesqu* 
points of national character, as well as of national music 
in the latter she always delighted." — Choez-ey's Jl/emo- 
riaXs of Mrs. Hemansy pp. 80, 81.] 



THE YESPBRS OF PALEEMO. 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

[" Mrs. Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied m the composition of her tragedy, ' The Vespers of Palermo,' which 
she originally wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr. Regi 
nald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr. Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through 
the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venturf. 
upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high lit- 
erary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all whc. 
read it, and most especially by the critics of the greenroom, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficientlj' 
safe guaranty of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between ite 
acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thuy 
wrote to Mr. Milman : — ' As I cannot helj) looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine 
expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice m having the respite as much 
prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragemeni 
I have received from you and Mr. Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet 
of escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.' " — Memoa-ffft 
81, 82.] 

DRAMATIS PERSON.a^ 



Count di Procida. 
Raimond di Procida, his Son. 
Eribert, Viceroy. 
De Conci. 

MONTALBA. 
GUIDO. 



Alberti. 
Anselmo, a Monk. 

VlTTORIA. 

Constance, Sister to Ey^iert, 



JVobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, Sec, Sec. Scene — Palermo. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



209 



ACT I. 

Scene I. - ■ ^ Valley, with vineyards and cottages. 

Groups of Peasants — Procida, disguised as 
a Pilgrim, among them, 

\st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time 
In days gone by ! I can remember well 
The old familiar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills. 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seemed so sweet. But the light 

hearts, 
Which to those measures beat so joyously, 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

2d Pea. Yes ! there are sounds 
Of revelry within the palaces, 
And the fair castles of our ancient lords, 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

Zd Pea. Alas ! we sat. 
In happier days, so peacefully beneath 
The olives and the vines our fathers reared. 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bowed 
E'en to the earth. 

Pea.'s Child. My father, tell me, when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chestnut woods, as in those days 
Of which thou'rt wont to tell the joyous tale ? 

1st Pea. When there are light and reckless 
hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas ! my boy, 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day care : they meet to speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Pro. (^frofn the background.^ Ay, it is well 
So to relieve th' o'erburdened heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far 
In silence to avenge them ! 

An Old Pea. What deep voice 
Came with that startling tone ? 

\st Pea. It was our guest's. 
The stranger pUgrim who hath sojourned here 
Since yestermorn. Good neighbors, mark him 

well : 
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye 
27 



Whose glance looks through the heart. His 

mien accoras 
111 with such vestments. How he folds around 

him 
His pilgrim cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly ermine ! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps ts 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Pea. Nay, rather mark him not ; foe times 
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here 
A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 
Old Pea. Peace ! we are beset 
By snares on every side, and we must learn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Pro. (coming forward indignantly.) 
The word is death ! And what hath life for thee. 
That thou shouldst cling to it thus ? thou abject 

thing ! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, 
And stamped with servitude. What ! is it life 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then, 
Strangers should catch its echo ? — Is there 

aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrowed cheek 
Is blanched with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days. 
Which drag thus poorly on r 

Some of the Peas. Away, away! 
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 
Pro. Why, what is danger ? Are there deeper 

ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly ? Ye have 

drained 
The cup of bitterness till nought remains 
To fear or shrink from — therefore be ye strong ! 
Power dwelleth with despair. Why start yp 

thus 
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts 
Locked in your secret souls ? Full well I know 
There is not one among you but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth mak« 
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs 
And thine — and thine ; but if within yotu 

breast 
There is no chord that vibrates to my vclc 
Then fare ye well. 

A Youth, {coming forward.) No, no ! say oa, 

say on ! 
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here,. 
That kindle at thy words. 



Pert. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us 

Pro. There is liope 
For all who suft'cr with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What ! think 

ye Heaven 
O'erlooks th' oppressor if he besr a while 
His crested head on high ? I tell you, no ! 
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is Justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood 
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in tnaii's heart, but ne'er doth Heaven 
fm-gct. 

Pea. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 
men 
Who might earn vengeance yet ; but wanting 

these, 
What wouldst thou have us do ? 

Pro, Be vigilant ; 
And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye Avell. 

[Exit Procida. 

1st Pea. This man should be a prophet ; how 
he seemed 
To read our hearts with his dark searching 

glance 
And aspect of command ! and yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

2d Pea. Speak low ; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturbed me, like a dream 
Of other days ; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings ! 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long. 
The Count di Procida. 

Pea. And is this he ? 
Then Heaven protect him ! for around his 

steps 
Will many snares be set. 

1«^ Pea. He comes not thus 
But with some mighty purpose — doubt it not ; 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been 

proved 
True to our native princes. But away ! 
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vine- 
yards ; now 
We may resume our toil. {Exeunt Peasants. 



Scene II The Terrace of a Castle. 

Erirert, Vittoria. 

Vit. Have I not told thee that I bear a heart 

Blighted and cold ? — Th' affections of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave ; their fount is 

closed. 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have seared it — all is fled from 

mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Eri. O lady ! doth the flower. 
That sleeps intombed through the long wintry 

storms. 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring. 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice ? 

Vit. Love ! — make lovers name thy spell, 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up, 
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers 

arrayed 
In arms against thee ! Know'st thou whom 1 

loved. 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on 

earth ? 
One who was bona for empire, and endowed 
With such high gifts of princely majesty 
As bowed all hearts before him ! Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful ? And such he died ; 
He died ! — hast thou forgotten ? — And thou'rt 

here. 
Thou meet' st my glance w^ith eyes which coldly 

looked, 

— Coldly ! — nay, rather with triumphant gaze, 
Upon his murder ! Desolate as I am, 

Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, 
O my lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eri. Haughty dame ! 
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed. 
Know danger is around thee : thou hast foes 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Vit. Provencal, tell 
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart 
Which hath its little world of loved ones round 
For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil joys 
That make earth Paradise. I stand alone ; 

— They that are blessed may fear. 
Eri. Is there not one 

Who ne'er commands in vain ? Proud lady 
bend 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



21: 



Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he, 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, 
O'er the bowed neck of prostrate Sicily, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjoii, decrees thy hand the boon 
My deeds have well deserved ; and who hath 

power 
Against his mandates ? 

Vii. Viceroy, tell thy lord 
That, e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land. 
Souls may not all be fettered. Oft, e'er now, 
Conquerors have rocked the earth, yet failed to 

tame 
Unto their purposes that restless fire 
Inhabiting man's breast. A spark bursts forth, 
And so thej' perish ! 'Tis the fate of those 
Who sport with lightning — and it may be his. 
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 
Eri. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart 

to bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady ! Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
StUl finds what most it seeks for. Pare thee 

well. 
— Look to it yet ' — To-morrow I return. 

[Exit Eribert. 
Vit. To-morrow ! — Some ere now have slept 

and dreamt 
*)f morrows which ne'er dawned — or ne'er for 

them ; 
So silently their deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like this on me ? Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
To his a glorious tale of his own isle, 
Free and avenged. — Thou shouldst be now at 

work, 
In wrath, my native .^tna ! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! sleep'st thou 

still. 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
The glowing vales beneath ? 

[Procida enters, disguised. 
Ha ! who art thou, 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me ? 

Pro. One o'er whom hath passed 
AH that can change man's aspect ! Yet not 

long 
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. 
I am ne, 10 breathe whose name is perilous, 



Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to »i 
lence. 

— Know'st thou this, lady ? 

[He shocos a ring 
Vit. Righteous Heaven ! the pledge 
Amidst his people from the scaff"old thrown 
By him who perished, and whose kingly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high — 

— O, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer ! 

Pro. Call me so, 
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell 
If the returned be welcome ? Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Vit. Why dost thou gaze. 
With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my altered mien ? 

Pro. That I may read 
If to the widowed love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now intrust my fate. 

Vit. Thou, Procida ! 
That thotc shouldst wrong me thus ! — prolong 

thy gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Pro. 'Tis enough. 
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye. 
And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in th)^ looks to trace, 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble suff'ering : on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state. 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet th« 

voice 
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed 
This tyi'ant Eribert. 

Vit. And told it not 
A tale of insolent love repelled with scorn — 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage ? Procida ! 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees 1113 

hand. 
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, 
To recompense his crimes. — I smiled — ay 

smiled — 
In proud securitj"- ; for the high of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace. 
Though it be dark and lone. 

Pro. Thou shalt not need 
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words 
I tell thee that a spirit is abroad 



212 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Which -will not slumber, till it8 path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live ! 
It is most meet that thou shouUlst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ! for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wronged lis faith !) hath 

nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 
Deep on thy marble brow. 

Vit. Then thou canst tell. 
By gazing on the withered rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath M'orked ! Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope ! but O, the things unseen, 
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief ! Yet doth my soul, 
Far 'midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality. 'Tis to see 
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage. 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers ! , * 

Pro. Hear'st thou not 
With what a deep and ominous moan the voice 
Of our great mountain swells ? There wiU be 

soon 
A fearful burst ! Vittoria ! brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou'lt find already kindled I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 

Vit. When shall we meet again ? — Are we 
not those 
Whom most he loved on earth ? and think' st thou 

not 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near, 
While thus we hold communion ? 

Pro. Yes, I feel 
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, 
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not 
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; 
He shall have nobler tribute ! — I must hence, 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[^Exeunt separately. 

Scene III. — The Sea Shore. 

Raimond di Procida, Constance. 

Con. There is a shadow far within your eye, 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont, 
Upon the clearness of your open brow, 
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round 
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well. 
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul. 



To hide it from affection. Why is this ? 
My Raimond, why is this ? 

Raim. O, from the dreams 
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood 

still 
A wild and stormy wakening r They depart — 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade. 
The vaguely beautiful ! tiU earth, unveiled. 
Lies pale around ; and life's realities 
Press on the soul, from its unfathomed depth 
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts. 
In all their fearful strength ! 'Tis ever thus. 
And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 
With high aspirings, making it a curse 
To breathe where noble minds are bowed, aa 

here. 

— To breathe ! — It is not breath ! 
Con. I know thy grief, 

— And is't not mine ? — for those devoted men, 
Doomed with their life to expiate some wild 

word. 
Born of the social hour. O, I have knelt. 
E'en at my brotither's feet, with fruitless tears. 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raim. Waste not thou thy prayers, 
O gentle love ! for them. There's little need 
For pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them ae- 

part ! 
There is a world beyond th' oppressor's reach. 
And thither lies their way. 

Con. Alas ! I see 
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the 
soul. 
Raim. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 
words, 
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 
A tone of bitterness. 0, when thine eyes. 
With their sweet, eloquent thoughtfulncss, arc 

fixed 
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget 
All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came 

To tell thee 

Con. What ? — what wouldst thou say ? O, 
speak ! 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 
Raim. I have cast a cloud. 
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruined for- 
tunes. 
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone. 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell one* 
more 



TEffi VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



21< 



In the clear, sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we met — before we loved ! 

Coji. This is but mockery. Well thou know'st 
thy love 
Hath given mo nobler being ; made my heart 
A homo for all the deep sublimities 
Of strong affection ; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source. 
With ail its checkered hues of hope and fear, 
E'en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind ! 
Have I deserved this ? 

Raim. O, thou hast deserved 
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. 
Think not 'tis mockery ! But I cannot rest 
To be the scorned and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies. 
That smile as if but festivals were held 
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For fi-eedom's chartered air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father ; he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Con. Must we part ? 
And is it come to this ? O, I have still 
Deemed it enough of joy with thee to share 
E'en grief itself. And now ! But this is vain. 
Alas ! too deep, too fond is woman's love ! 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raim. O, speak not thus ! 
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine ; 
For I have dreamt of fame ! A few short years^ 
And we may yet be blest. 

Con. A few short years ! 
Less time may well suiRce for death and fate 
To work all change on earth ; to break the ties 
Which early love had formed ; and to bow down 
Th' elastic spirit ; and to blight each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path ! But be it so ! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Raim. Where'er I roam, 
Thou shalt be with my soul! Thy soft, low 

voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness. that there should be 
Things which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of 

Avoe 
Dwells in one 'lour like this ! Yet weep thou not ! 



We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love ( 
Ere I depart. 

Con. Then there's a respite still. 
Days ! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
.Th' impending blow we shrink from. Fare the< 

well. [Returnini/ 

— O Raimond ! this is not our last farewell ! 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me ? 

Raim. Doubt me not, 
Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit Constance. 
Raim. (after a paiise.) When shall I breathe 

in freedom, and give scope 
To those untamable and burning thoughts, 
And restless aspirations, which consume 
My heart i' th' land of bondage ? O, with you, 
Ye everlasting images of power 
And of infinity ! thou blue rolling deep ! 
And you, ye stars ! whose beams are charactern 
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced — 
With you mj'^ soul finds room, and casts aside 
The weight that doth oppress her. But mT 

thotights 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

[Procida enters unobserved. 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 
Pro. {coming forward.) He is here. 
Raim. Now, thou mysterious stranger — thou 

whose glance 
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours 
Reveal thyself : what art thou ? 

Pro. One whose life 
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand 

storms. 
With still a mighty aim. But now the shades 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. " 

Raim. Seek'st thou for peace ? 
This is no land of peace : unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men't 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull, hoUow semblance of repose. 
May so be called. 

Pro. There are such calms full oft 
Preceding earthquakes. But 1 have not been 
So vainly schooled by fortune, and inured 
To shape my course on peril's dizzy brinJt 



il4 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of hushed submissiveness as best 
Must suit the troubled aspect of the times. 

liaiin. Why, then, thou'rt welcome, stranger, 
to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his 

brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided hves have dra^vn 
From the same past their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more — lest hearts, 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour 
Should pour out some rash word, which rovnig 

winds 
Might whisper to our conquerors. This it is 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Pro. It matters not 
To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extremes, and there is that in life 
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp. 
Even when its lofty aims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. 
— Why dost thou turn away .'' 

Bairn. What wouldst thou with me ? 
I deemed thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow, 
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Pro. I would counsel thee. 
Thou must do that which men — ay, valiant 

men — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court. 
And in the stately camp, and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose flushed mirth is all 
A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eye ? If vengeance wait the foe, 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths concealed 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth, I say. 
Keep thy soul down ! Put on a mask ! — 'tis 

worn 
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
Its aid in every scene. 

Raim. Away, dissembler ! 
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, 
Fitted to every nature. Will the free 
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
By which ths serpent wins his spell-bovmd prey ? 



It is because I will not clothe myself 

In a vile garb of coward semblances, 

That now, e'en now, I struggle with ray heart, 

To bid what most I love a long farewell. 

And seek my country on some distant shore, 

Where such things are unknown ! 

Pro. {ex-uki7iffly.) Why, this is joy: 
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds. 
To meet a spirit, whose buld elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crushed. High-hearted 

youth. 
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
Visit these shores 

Raim. My father ! what of him ? 
Speak ! was he known to thee ? 

Pro. In distant lands 
With him I've traversed many a wild, and looked 
On many a danger ; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, 
Oft through the storm hath cheered him. 

Raim. Dost thou deem 
That still he lives ? O, if it be in chains 
In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell. 
Say but he lives — and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Pro. It may be that he lives. 
Though long his name hath ceased to be a woro 
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard ! Kaimond di Procidi, 
Rememberest thou thy father .'' 

Raim. From my mind 
His form hath faded long, for years have passed 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 
Yet powerful image of deep majesty. 
Still dimly gathering round each thought of him 
Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Pro. Raimond ! doth no voice 
SjDeak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now ? My son ! my son I 

Raiin. Father ! O God ! — my father ! N ow 
I know 
Why my heart woke before thee ! 

Pro. O, this hour 
Makes hope reahty ; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raim. Yet why so long 
E'en as a stranger hast thou crossed my paths, 
One nameless and unknown ? — and yet I felt 
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 

Pro. Because I would not linli thy fate witl 
mine. 
Till I could hail the dayspring of that hdpe 



IHE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



21S 



Which now is gat^xering round us. Listen, youth ! 
Thou hast told w>« of a subdued, and scorned, 
A.nd trampled la-^d, ■whose very soul is bowed 
A.nd fashioned ta her chains : but I tell thee 
Of a most generous and devoted land, 
Al land of kindling energies ; a land 
Of glorious recnUections ! — proudly true 
To the high momory of her ancient kings, 
A.nd rising, in niajestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage off ! 

Raim. And where is this ? 

Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
Her spirit is awake, and moving on, 
In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of that tremendo^is effort is at hand. 

Raim. Can it be thus indeed ? Thou pour'st 
new life 
Through all my bi»Tning veins ! I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep 
To the full gloriouc day. 

Pro. Thou shalt hear more ! 
Thou shalt hear things which would, which will, 

arouse 
The proud free spirits of our ancestors 
E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark mc well ! 
Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me, 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raim. My noble father ! 
Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
An aim, a hope, a purpose ! And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sunstroke freed. 

Pro. Ay, this is well ! 
Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now fol- 
low me. [Exeunt. 

ACT 11. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace. 
Eeibert, Constance. 

Con. Will you not hear me ? O that they 
who need 
Hourly forgiveness — they who do but live 
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars. 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, 
In their vain exercise of pageant power, 
Hard and relentless ! Gentle brother ! yet 
Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eri. 'Tis too late. 



You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 

Con. What ! — die ! — for words ? — for breath 
which leaves no trace 
To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, 
And is, being uttered, gone ? Why, 'twere enough 
For such a venial fault to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage, 
Heaven's warm and sunny light ! O, if you 

deem 
That evil harbors in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice wake. 

Eri. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crowned and armed. And, 

mark me, sister ! 
To a distrustful natui-e it might seem 
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should 

plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note 
I have said, and they must die. 

Con. Have you no Tear ? 

Eri. Of what ? — that heaven should fall ? 

Con. No ! — But that earth 
Should arm in madness. Brother ! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en 'midst festal throng? 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eri. Am I then 
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? 

Con. O, looks are no illusions, when the soul. 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs to liberty ! Have not these men 
Brave sons or noble brothers ? 

Eri. Yes ! whose name 
It rests with me to make a word of fear — 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Con. But not forgotten ! Ah! beware, beware 1 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The springtime glow is lingering. 'Twas but now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast : and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. You smile ! — O, then 
He will be saved ! 

Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fond fool is Hope ! She may be taugn 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 



SI6 



THE VESPERS OF VaLERMO. 



To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mocked the boy's sad mother : I have said — 
You should not thus have mocked her ! — Now, 

farewell ! [Exit Eribekt. 

Con. O brother ! hard of heart ! — for deeds 

like these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too — for Heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! [Exit Constance. 

Scene II. — A ruined Tower surroimded by woods. 
Procida, Vittoeia. 

Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then ? 

Vit. Yes ; they wait 
Thy summons to their task. 

Pro. Keep the flame bright, 
But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, 

lady. 
To join our councils at the night's mid watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross .'' 

Vit. What should I shrink from ? 

Pro. O, the forest paths 
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches ; but when powerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds, their aspect then 
Is of another and more fearful world — 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms. 
Waking strange thoughts almost too much for 

this — 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

Vit. Well I know 
All this, and more. Such scenes have been 

th' abodes 
Where through the silence of my soul have passed 
Voices and visions from the sphere of those 
That have to die no more ! Nay, doubt it not ! 
If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, 
Unmaddened could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances ! At the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth 
And air with infinite viewless multitudes, 
t will be with thee, Procida. 

Pro. Thy presence 
VVill kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 



Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 

That which may strengthen our majestic cause 

With yet a deeper power. Know'st thou thfl 

spot ? 
Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild 

and lone. 
In these dim woods, but I have visited 
Its tangled shades. 

Pro. At midnight, then, we meet. 

[Exit Pbooida. 
Vit. Why should I fear ? Thou wilt be with 

me — thou, 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul. 
Spirit of him I love ! that meet'st me still 
In loneliness and silence ; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, 
Known but to me ; for whom thou giv'st the 

winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, 
Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy ! 
— Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips 
Words, fiery words, to flush dai-k cheeks with 

shame 
That thou art unavenged ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Scene III. — A Chapel, icith a monument on which 
is laid a sword. — Moonlight. 

Procida, Raimond, Montalba. 

Mon. And know you not my story ? 
Pro. In the lands 
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep 

wrongs 
Were numbered with our country's ; but theii 

tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. 

Mon. Hark ! while you spoke, 
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, 
Which even like death came o'er me. 'Twas a 

night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, 
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the eartli. 
Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurred 
My good steed homewards. O, what lovely 

dreams 
Rose on my spirit ! There were tears and smiles. 
But all of joy ! And there were bounding 

steps, 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck 
When his plumed helm is doffed. — Hence 

feeble thoughts ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



217 



— I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were 
mine ! 

ciaim. And were they realized ? 

Mon. Youth ! ask me not, 
But listen ! I drew near my own fair home — 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle pealing from the watchtower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were 

thrown 
All open. Then my heart misgave me first. 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
£ paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which 

pierced 
My soul e'en now ! I called — my struggling 

voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names. 
They answered not. I roused my failing strength, 
And wildly rushed within. — And they were 
there. 

Raim. And was all well ? 

Mon. Ay, well ! — for death is well : 
And they were all at rest ! I see them yet. 
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had failed 
To stay the assassin's arm ! 

Raim, O righteous Heaven ! 
Who had done this ? 

Mon. Who! 

Pro. Canst thou question who ? 
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such 

deeds, 
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, 
But those whose yoke is on us ? 

Raim. Man of woe ! 
What words hath pity for despair like thine ? 

Mon. Pity ! — fond youth ! — My soul dis- 
dains the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies 
To ask a vain companionship of tears, 
And so to be reheved ! 

Pro. For woes like these 
There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Mon. None ! 
Therefore I brought you hither, that your 

hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round ! 
We are in th' awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. They sleep ! 

— but I 
Am wakeful o'er their dust! — i laid my 

sword, 
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, 
A.S on an altar ; and t>9 eternal stars, 
28 



And heaven, and night, bore witness to my 

vow, 
No more to wield it save in one great cause — 
The vengeance of the grave ! And now the hout 
Of that atonement comes ! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 
Raim. My spirit burns ! 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 

— O for the day of battle ! 
Pi-o. Raimond, they 

Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood maa 
die, 

— But not m battle. 
Raim. How, my father ? 
Pro. No ! 

Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. But the appointed hour 
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen bancU 
Noble Montalba ? 

Mon. Leave me for a time, 
That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men 
And with their passions. I have nursed f) ( 

years, 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
Which doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be looked or breathed on. Procida ! 
I would be tranquil; — or appear so — ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my 

heart 
There struck a pang — but it will soon have 

passed. 
Pro. Remember — in the cavern by the cross. 
Now follow me, my son. 

[Exeunt Peocida and Raimond. 
Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) 
Said he, "My son"? Now, why should this 

man's life 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son. 
And I be desolate ? How strange a sound 
Was that — " my son " ! I had a boy, who 

might 
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow 
As doth this youth. Why should the thought 

of him 
Ihus haunt me ! When I tread the peopled 

ways 
Of life again, I shall be passed each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on. Methinks 'twere now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft as I am ! But away, 
Vain thoughts ! — One task is left for blighted 

hearts. 
And it shall be fulfilled. [Exit MontalbAi 



218 



THE VES.'ERS 01* PALERMO. 



BcENE IV. — Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by 

rocks and forests. A rude Cross seen amonff 

the rocks. 

Procida, Raimond. 

Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies 
Of midnii,'ht, and in solitary caves, 
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair — 
Is't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 
The councils of thoir country .'' 

Raim. Why, such scenes 
In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deejier thoughts than pillared halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils. Ai"e we not 
O'ershadowed by that ^JEtna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 

home 
In other climes ? Hark ! from its depths, e'en 

now. 
What hoUow moans are sent ! 

Enter Montalba, Gumo, and other Sicilians. 

Pro. Welcome, my brave associates ! We can 
share 
The wolf's wild freedom here ! Th' oppressor's 

haunt 
Is not 'midst rocks and caves. Are we all met ? 

Sicilians. All, all ! 

Pro. The torchlight, swayed by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had returned to breathe 
Once more without a corselet, and to meet 
The voices, and the footsteps, and the smiles 
Blent with his dreams of home ? Of that dark 

tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! Art thou here. 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair. 
Childless Montalba ? 

Mon. {advancing.') He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Pro. Thou, too, come forth, 
From thine own halls an exile ! Dost thou make 
The mountain fastnesses thy dwelling still. 
While hostile banners o'er thy rampart walls 
Wave their proud blazonry ? 

\st Sicilian. Even so. I stood 
Last night before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head. What recked it ? There 

■was joy 
Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps 



Were streaming from each turret, and gay songa 
r th' stranger's tongue made mirth. They lit- 
tle deemed 
Who heard their melodies ! But there are 

thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dread 

vows 
Known to the mountain echoes. Procida ! 
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. 
Pro. I knew a young Sicilian — one whose 

heart 
Should be aU fire. On that most guilty day 
When, with our raart}Ted Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perished ; he of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand Hearts that dared not aid, 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms. 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turned full on him its parting agony. 
The father's blood gushed o'er him ! and the 

boy 
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye. 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, looked 

up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour ? 

2d Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ' 
— CaU on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 
Pro. Our band shows gallantly — but there 

are men 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts waj'-, and breathe a wish 
For freedom ! — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert : so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other victim first ! But have they not 
Brothers or sons among us ? 

Gui, Look on me ! 
I have a brother — a young high-souled boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears, amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature ! But his doom is sealed 
With theirs of whom ye spoke ; and I have 

knelt — 
Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life — I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurned me. But the 

stain 
Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, 
And thus it shall be cancelled ! Call on me. 
When the stem mcmeftt of revenge is nigh< 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



219 



Pro. I call upon thee now ! The land's high 
soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains. 
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — Ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. No praise be 

hers 
For what she blindly works ! When slavery's 

cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a deluious strength 
To burst man's fetters. And they shall be 

burst ! 
I have hoped when hope seemed frenzy ; but 

a power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one great aim. 
To make and rule its fortunes ! I have been 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands 
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near : 
But we must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts — whose righteous arm be- 
friends 
The arm that strikes for freedom — speak ! 

decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Moil, Let them fall 
When dreaming least of peril ! — when the 

heart, 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the 

sword 
With a thick veQ of myrtle ; and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine cup shines 
Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 
Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy 

words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Moil. Why, then I must repeat 
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst 

forth 
In some free festal hovir — and woe to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Raim. Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike ? 

Mon. Who talks of innocence ? 
W^hen hath their hand been stayed for inno- 

senoe f 



Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose its 

own. 
Why should their children live ? The earth- 
quake whelms 
Its undistinguished thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is Heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man ? What if the infant bleed ? 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs ? 
What if the youthful bride perchance should 

faU 
In her triumphant beauty ? Should we pause } 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our woes ? 
Let them all perish ! And if one be found 
Amidst our band to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love. 
Then be his doom as theirs ! [A paust 

Why gaze ye thus ? 
Brethren, what means your silence ? 

Sicilians. Be it so ! 
If one among us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! 
Pledge we our faith to this ! 

Raim. {^Rushing forward indignantly.') Oiw 
faith to this ! 
No ! I but dreamt I heard it ! Can it be ? 
My countrymen, my father ! — is it thus 
That freedom should be won ? Awake ! — 

awake 
To loftier thoughts ! Lift up exultingly, 
On the crowned heights and to the sweeping 

winds, 
Your glorious banner ! Let your trumpet's bias 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! CaU 

aloud. 
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall beai 
The stranger's yoke no longer ! What is he 
Who carries on his practised hp a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy to stiU its beat- 
ings ? 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil 

from. 
And our blood curdle at — ay, yours and mine — 
A murderer ! Heard ye ? Shall that nam* 

with ours 
Go down to after days ? O friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise hath made bright 

names 
Of th' elder time as rallying words to men — - 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such ? 
Mon. Fond dreamer, peace I 



r 



220 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Fame ! What is fame ? Will our unconscious 

dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave 
At the vain breath of praise ? I tell thee, j'outh, 
Our souls are parched with agonizing thirst, 
Which must be quenched, though death were 

in the draught ; 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy unblighted. 

Pro. my son ! 
The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know'st not whom we deal with : knight- 
ly faith 
And chivalrous honor are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds by 

which 
We burst our bondage — is it not enough 
That in the chronicle of days to come, 
We, through a bright " Forever," shall be called 
The men who saved their country ? 

Raim. Many a land 
Hath bowed beneath the j'oke, and then arisen 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds, 
And on the open field, before high Heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made 
Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be called 
The children of the mighty, who redeemed 
Their native soil — but not by means like these. 

Mo7i. I have no children. Of Montalba's blood 
Not one red drop doth circle through the 

veins 
Of aught that breathes ! Why, what have I 

to do 
With far futurity ? My spirit lives 
But in the past. Away ! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not, then return, 
Strong in thy desolation : but till then. 
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Raim. Montalba ! know 
I shrink from crime alone. O, if my voice 
Mijj'ht yet have power among you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Mon. Peace ! have we not borne 
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains ? 
We are not knights and warriors. Our bright 

cres'a 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 



Raim. Wliy, then, farewell : 
I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased. 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. 

P70. And is it thus indeed ? — dost thoti for 
sake 
Oiir cause, my son ? 

Raim. O father ! what proud hopes 
This hour hath blighted ! Yet, whate'er betide 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face — and this ii 

mine, 
And shall be still. [Exii Raimond. 

Pro. He's gone ! Why, let it be ! 
I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. Associates ! 'tis decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Mon. It should be 
In the full city, when some festival 
Hath gathered throngs, and lulled infatuata 

hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze ? 
We are betrayed. — Who art thou ? 

ViTTOEiA enters. 

Pro. One alone 
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

[She raises her veil — the Sicilians drati 
back loiih respect. 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 
Of our lost king ! 

Pro. And more, Montalba ; know 
Within this form there dwells a soul as high 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved, 
Or patriots on the scaffold. 

Vit- Valiant men ! 
I come to ask j'our aid. You see me, one 
Whose widowed youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Say, is it meet that, lingering thus on earth 
But to behold one great atonement made, 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A tyrant's will should force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallowed vows, and li\e 
Stung by the keen, unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom ; live — another's bride ? 

Sicilians. Never ! O, never ! Fear not, nobl« 
lady ! 
Worthy of Conradin ! 

Vit. Yet hear me still — 
His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears 



ITIE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



22V 



With his insulting eye of cold derision, 

And, could he pieice the depths where feeling 

works, 
W^ould number e'en our agonies as crimes. 

Say, is this meet ? 

Gtu. We deemed these nuptials, lady, 
Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou'rt noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs, 
This shall not be. 

Pro. Vittoria, thou art come 
To ask our aid — but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vit, Procida ! 

Pro. Nay, start not thus. 
Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vit. Can my soul 
Dissemble thus ? 

Pro. We have no other means 
Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurped it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may be best done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Mon. Then we will mix 
With the flushed revellers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vit. A bridal day ! 
— Must it be so ? Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
I bid you to my nuptials ! but be there 
With your bright swords unsheathed — for thus 

alone 
My guests should be adorned. 

Pro. And let thy banquet 
Be soon announced ; for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would pur- 
chase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vit. Be it then the day 
Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Gui. My brother ! thou shalt live ! Oppres- 
sion boasts ; 
No gift of prophecy ! — It but rem&ins 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Mon. The Vesper bell ! 
, Pro. Even so — the Vesper bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry. 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant. 



The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, 
I follow with the rest. The Vesper beil ! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come. 
The time when power is in a voice, a breath, 
To burst the spell which bound us. But th» 

night 
Is waning, with her stars, which one by one 
Warn us to part. Friends, to your homes ! • 

your homes ? 
Thai name is yet to win. Away ! prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper bell ! Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 
The Vesper bell ! [Exeunt omnea, 

ACT m. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace 
Eribekt, Vittoria. 

Vit. Speak not of love — it is a word with deep, 
Strange magic in its melancholy sound, 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest, 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 
We must throw from us, when the heart woulo 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes ; 
Therefore, no more of love ! But if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments — to smile 
(I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; — if this be deemed 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Eri. My fortune's star 
Doth rule th' ascendant still ! {Apart.) — If noi 

of love. 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy. 
And with exulting heart 

Vit. There is no joy ! 
— Who shall look through the far futurity, 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develop on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng, 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
" This will bring happiness " ? Who shaU do 

this? 
Who ! thou and I, and all ! There's One, who sit» 
In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, 
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds ! but we, from whose (iull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun — e'en wf 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers. 
Of future joy and grief! 

Eri. Thy words are strange. 
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settU 



,222 



THE VESPERS O^ PALERMO. 



Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria ! 
0, if my cares 

Vit. I know a day shall come 
Of peace to all. Even from my darkened spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, 
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down 
P'^enely to repose. Of this no more, 
have a boon to ask. 

Eri. Command my power, 
And deem it thus most honored. 

Vit. Have I then 
Soared such an eagle pitch as to command 
The mighty Eribert ? — And yet 'tis meet ; 
For I bethink me now I should have worn 
A crown upon this forehead. Generous lord ! 
Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a 

sound 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bear- 
ing 
A sense of deep repose, have lulled me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness ; I mean 
The Vesper bell. I pray you, let it be 
The summons to our bridal. Hear you not ? 
To our fair bridal ! 

Eri. Lady, let your will 
Appoint each circumstance. I am too blessed. 
Proving my homage thus. 

Vit. Why, then, 'tis mine 
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I'm at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There — to the last ! 

Eri. Your smiles are troubled, lady — 
May they ere long be brighter ! Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper bell. 

Vit. 'Tis lovers' phrase 
To say — Time lags, and therefore meet for 

you ; 
But with an equal pace the hours move on. 
Whether they bear on their swift, silent wing 
Pleasure or — fate. 

E7-i. Be not so full of thought 
Or. such a day. Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile 
Unshadowed by a cloud. 

Vit. 'Tis very meet 
That Heaven (which loves the just) should wear 

a smile 
ji honor of his fortunes. Now, my lord, 



Forgive me if I say farewell until 
Th' appointed hour. 

Eri. Lady, a brief finoweii. 

[ExeurJ separately 

Scene U. — The Sea Shore. 
Procida, Raimond. 

Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share th« 
glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise ? 

Raim. O father ! 
I too have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds 
Whereby 'twas won — the high exploits, whose 

tale 
Bids the heart bum, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 

Pro. Every deed 
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The freedom of our country ; and the sword 
Alike is honored in the patriot's hand, 
Searching, 'midst warrior hosts, the heart which 

gave 
Oppression birth, or flashing througti the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 

Raim. (turning away.) There is no path but one 
For noble natures. 

Pro. Wouldst thou ask the man 
Who to the earth hath dashed a nation's 

chains. 
Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by whal 

means 
The glorious end was won ? Go, swell th' ac« 

claim ! 
Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path, 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny. 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it called 
A stern necessity, but not a crime ! 

Raim. Father ! my soul yet kindles at tha 
thought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learned. 
E'en from thy voice. The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the htart 
Where thou didst plant them ; and they sr>"ak 

of men 
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild 
Acts that would bear heaven's light — and sucX 

be mine ! 
O father ! is it yet too '.ate to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiai;*. hsaria 
On our most righteous cause ? 

Pro. What wouldst thou do ? 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



22, 



Raim. I would go forth, and rouse th' indig- 
nant land 
To generous combat. Why should freedom 

strike 
MRntlo*", -with darkness ? Is there not more 

strength 
E'en in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her ? / would rouse 
That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere — the stormy field of fight ! 
Pro. Ay ! and give time and warning to the foe 
To gather all his might ! It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun 
When rings the Vesper bell ; and, long before 
To-morrow's sun hath reached i' th' noonday 

heaven 
His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls. 
As by one thunderstroke — (you are pale, my 

son) — 
Shall be forever silenced ! 

Raim. What ! such sounds 
As falter on the lip of infancy. 
In its imperfect utterance ? or are breathed 
By the fond mother as she lulls her babe ? 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Poured by the timid maid ? Must all alike 
Be stQled in death ? and wouldst thou tell my 

heart 
There is no crime in this ? 

Pro. Since thou dost feel 
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 
Raim. Speak ! O, speak ! 
P70. How would those rescued thousands 

bless thy name 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raim. Father ! I can bear — 
Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems 
To claim a part of Heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought. 

Pro. {after a pause.') Thou hast a brow 
Clear as the daj'- — and yet I doubt thee, Rai- 

mond ! 
Whether it be that I have learned distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folilcrl 

heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom crossed 
By honor and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting th'is 
My unaccustomed gaze : howe'er it be — 
^ doubt thee ! See thou waver not— take heed. 
Time lifts tV.e veil from aU things ! 

'Exit Procida. 



Raim. And 'tis thus 
Youth fades from off our sp>it ; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! O, bitter day ! 
When, at the crushing of our glorious world, 
We start, and find men thus ! Yet be it so ! 
Is not my soul still powerful in itself 
To realize its dreams ? Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. But, away ! 
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Love 

is yet 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond. 

Scene III. — Gardens of a Palace. 
Constance alone. 

Con. There was a time when my thoughts 
wandered not 
Beyond these fairy scenes ! — when but to catoh 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough 
Of happiness. How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews, 
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great sun ! [Raimond enters. 

Raimond ! 0, now thou'rt come — 
I read it in thy look — to say farewell 
For the last time — the last ! 

Raim. No, best beloved ! 
I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us but in death. 

Con. I have dreamt of joy, 
But never aught like this. Speak yet again ! 
Say we shall part no more ! 

Raim. No more — if love 
Can strive with darker spirits ; and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! All is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribort — my father is returned : 
I leave thee not. 

Con. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! O, if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate 
Even a Provencal maid ! Thy father ! — now 
Thy soul wUl be at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! But how u 

this ? 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ? 
And in thy look is t'lat which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 



Raim. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a slumberer, crowned with flowers, and 

smiling 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange fantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
[ cannot but be sad. 

Con. Why, let me sing 
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well. 
And this will banish it. 
Raim. It may not be. 
gentle Constance ! go not forth to-day : 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Co7i. Have you then forgot 
My brother's nuptial feast ? I must be one 
Of the gaj- train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy 
WUI print earth lightly now. What fear'st 

thou, love ? 
Look all around ! the blue transparent skies, 
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life 
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly 

chase 
All thought of evil. Why, the very air 
Breathes of delight ! Through all its glowing 

realms 
Doth music blend with fragrance ; and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard. 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds 
Of human joy ! 

Raim. There lie far deeper things — 
Things that may darken thought for life, beneath 
That city's festive semblance. I have passed 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have marked 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes. 
Which deemed their flash unnoticed, and a 

quick. 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide 
Much from unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs 
Have been prophetic oft. 

Con. I tremble ! — Kaimond ! 
What may these things portend ? 

Raim. It was a day 
Of festival like this ; the city sent 
Up through her sunny firmament a voice 
Joyous as now ; when, scarcely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous 

depths 
The earthquake burst ; and the wide splendid 

scene 



Became one chaos of all fearful things. 

Till the brain whirled, partaking the sick motion 

Of rocking palaces. 

Con. And then didst thou. 
My noble Ilaimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, 
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had 

given 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to 

bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven 
Wafts gladness to her soul ! 

Raim. Heaven ! — Heaven is just ! 
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one ! still. 
Trust none beside. O, the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares^ 
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, 
Masked as a reveller. Constance ! O, by all 
Our tried aff'ection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts togethei', meet me in these bowers ; 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound for vesper prayer ! 
Con. And know'st thou not 
'Twill be the bridal hour ? 
Raim. It will not, love ! 
That hour will bring no bridal ! Nought of this 
To human ear ; but speed thou hither — fly, 
When evening brings that signal. Dost thou 

heed ? 
This is no meeting by a lover sought 
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight 

groves 
And stars attest liis vows ; deem thou not so. 
Therefore denying it ! I tell thee, Constance ! 
If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair 
As falls on man, beholding all he loves 
Perish before him, while his strength can but 
Strive with his agony — thou'lt meet me then. 
Look on me, love ! — I am not oft so moved — 
Thou'lt meet me ? 

Con. 0, what mean thy words ? If then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou but 

calm. 
Raim. Be calm ! — there is a cold and sullen 

calm, 
And, were my wild fears made realities. 
It might be mine ; but, in this dread suspen ?e — 
This conflict of all terrible fantasies, 
There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, deal 

love! 
I win watch o'er thee stDI. And now, farewell 
Until that hour I 

Con. My Ilaimond, fare thee well. [Exeunt, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



226 



Scene IV. — Room in the Citadel of Palermo. 
Alberti, De Couci. 

Dp. Coti. Saidst thou, this night .'' 

Alb. This very night — and lo ! 
E'en now the sun declines. 

De Cou. What ! are they armed ? 

Alb. All armed, and strong in vengeance and 
despair. 

De Cozi. Doubtful and strange the tale ! Why 
was not this revealed before ? 

Alb. Mistrust me not, my lord ! 
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought 
Co read in mine) a watch so vigilant 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands — to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Cou. How may we now 
Avert the gathering storm ! The viceroy 

holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry, 
'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alb. Thou thyself 
Mayst yet escape, and haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

De Cou. He must not die unwarned. 
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdoned, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching 
night. 

Alb. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 

[Exit Alberti. 

De Cou. The grovelling slave ! — And yet he 
spoke too true ! 
For Eribert, in blind, elated joy, 
Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes 

fast. 
And through the city, recklessly dispersed. 
Unarmed and unprepared, my soldiers revel, 
E'en on the brink of fate. I must away. 

[Exit De Couci. 
29 



Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall. — Provencal 
Nobles assembled. 

\st Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! Who 

hath seen 
The viceroy's bride ? 

2d Noble. I saw her as she passed 
The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 
'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, 
Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

3fZ Noble. 'Twas theii- boast 
With what fond faith she worshipped still tho 

name 
Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves 
Brook this new triumph of their lords ? 

2d Noble. In sooth. 
It stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Provent^als, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural effort 
They strive to smile. 

1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair ? 

2d Noble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet he» 
beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large, dark eye, 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou'lt shrink as I did. 

Ist Noble. Hush ! they come. 

Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, and others. 

Eri. Welcome, my noble friends ! — there 
must not lower 
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily ! 
— Behold my bride ! 

Nobles. Receive our homage, lady ! 

Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we ofFei 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eri. Look on her, friends ! 
And say if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem. 

Vit. 'Tis well, my lord ! 
When memory's pictures fade — 'tis kindly do* 
To brighten their dimmed hues ! 

1st Noble, {apart.) Marked you her glance? 

2d Noble, {apart.) What eloquent scorn wa» 
there ! Yet he, th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eri. Now to the feast ! 
Constance, you look not joyous. I tave said 
That all should smile to-day. 

Con. Forgive me, brother ; 



rhe heart is -waywcrd, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eri. Why, how is this ? 

Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, 
TJnto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay. 
Since 'tis your Avish. In truth, I should kave been 
A village maid. 

Eli. But being as you are, 
Not thus ignobh' free, command your looks 
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Yit. And know, fair maid ! 
That, if in this unskilled, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eri. To the feast ! 
Now let the red wine foam ! — There should be 

mirth 
When conquerors revel ! Lords of this fair isle ! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each, bowl, 

and pledge 
The present and the future ! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride ? 

Vit. Yes, Eribert ! — thy prophecies of jcy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

En. 'Tis well. To-day 
] have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, 
To waft me happiness ! — my proudest foes 
Must die ; and then my slumbers shall be laid 
On rose leaves, with no envious fold to mar 
I'Tie luxury of its visions ! — Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vit. It is strange — but oft, 
'Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with sor»° dull image ! As you 

spoke 
Of those whose blood ia claimed, I thought for 

them 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, 
How blessed were <^he stroke which makes them 

things 
f'i that invisible world, wherein, we trust, 
There vs at least no bondage ! But should we, 
From such a scene as this, Avhere all earth's joys 
Con'tend for mastery, and the very sense 
Oi life is rapture — should we pass, I say, 
At once from such excitements to the void 
And silent gloom of that which doth await us • 
Were it not dreadful ? 

Eri. Banish such dark thoughts ! 
They ill beseem the hour. 

Vit. There is no hour 
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, 



But they beseem it well ! Why, what a slif^ht, 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which 

severs 
Being fyom death ! And who can tell how near 
Its misty brink he stands ? 

\st Nohle, (aside.) What mean her words? 

2d Noble. There's some dark mystery here. 

Eri. No more of this ! 
Pour the bright juice which Etna's glowing vine* 
Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice 
Dispel these ominous dreams ! — WakP, harp and 

song! 
Swell out your triumph ! 

A Messenger enters, bearing a letter. 
Mes. Pardon, my good lord ! 

But this demands 

Eri. What means thy breathless haste, 
And that ill-boding mien ? Away ! such looka 
Befit not hours like these. 

Mes. The Lord De Couci 
Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught witli. 

tidings 
Of life and death. 

Vit. {hurriedly.') Is this a time for aught 
But revelry ? My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene. 

Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence ! Tell the Lord 
De Couci, we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger- 

Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day, 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 

A band of the Conspirators enter, to the sound of 
music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, Sgc. 
Eri. What forms are these ? What means 

this antic triumph ? 
Vit. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music ? Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, 
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye 

some strain 
Meet lor the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

One of the Masquers sings. 

The festal eve, o'er earth and sky, 

In her sunset robe looks bright. 
And the purple hills of Sicily 

With their vineyards laugh in light ; 
From the marble cities of her plains 

Glad voices mingling swell ; 
— But with yet more loud and lofty straimi 

They shall hail the Vepper bell ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



227 



O, sweet its tones when the summer breeze 

Their cadence wafts afar, 
To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas, 

As they gleam to the first pale star ! 
rhe shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
— But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, 
In the sound of the Vesper bell ! 

[ The hell rings. 
Eri. It is the hour ! Hark, hark ! — my bride, 
our summons ! 
rhe altar is prepared and crowned with flowers, 

That wait 

Vit. The victim ! 

[A tumult heard without. 

Procida and Montalba enter, loith others, armed. 
Pro. Strike ! the hour is come ! 
Vit. Welcome, avengers ! welcome ! Now, 
be strong ! 

'^The Conspirators throio off their disguise, and 
rush with their swords drawn upon the Provencals. 
Eeibebt is wounded, and falls.') 

Pro. Now hath fate reached thee, in thy mid 
career. 
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies ! 

{The Provencals are driven off, pursued by the 
Sicilians.) 
Con. {supporting Ekibert.) My brother ! O, 

mj' brother ! 
Eri. Have I stood 
A leader in the battle fields of kings. 
To perish thus at last ? Ay, by these pangs. 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep. 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, 
This should be — death ! In sooth, a dull ex- 
change 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices, (zoithotct.) Remember Conradin ! — spare 

none ! — spare none ! 
Vit. {throwing off her bridal wreath and orna- 
ments.) This is proud freedom ! Now my 
soul may cast, 
[n generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth, forever ! And it is such joy. 
As if a captive from his dull cold cell 
Might soar at once, on chartered wing, to range 
The realms of starred infinity ! Away ! 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert ! 
Believe in retribution ! What ! proud man ! 



Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deem 

Heaven slept ? 
" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers. 
Ranging the world to note e'en purposed crim« 
In burning characters, had laid aside 
Their everlasting attributes for thee? " 
O, blind security I He in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reached 
His pyramid height of power ; that so his fall 
May with more fearful oracles make pale 
Man's crowned oppressors ! 

Con. O, reproach him not ! 
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 
Of that dim world where passion may not enter. 
Leave him in peace. 

Voices, (loiihout.) Anjou ! Anjou! — DeCouci, 
to the rescue ! 

Eri. {half raising himself.) My brave Pro- 
vencals ! do ye combat still ? 
And I your chief am here ! Now, now I fe<^' 
That death indeed is bitter. 

Vit. Fare thee well ! 
Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile 
Have looked on man's last pangs, thou shouldst by 

this 
Be perfect how to die ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Raimond enters. 

Raim. Away, my Constance ! 
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtenn 

bands 
Are scattered far and wide. A little while 
And thou shalt be in safety. Know'st thou nol 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man 
Anselmo ? — he whose hermitage is reared 
'Mid some old temple's ruins ? Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallowed as a sanctuary wherein 
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its fury. Haste ! 

Coti. I will not fly ! 
While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus, 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eri. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what ? But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die. 
But on the field [He dies 

Con. {kneeling by him.) O Heaven ! be merciful 
As thou art just ! — for he is now where nought 
Bu mercy can avail him. — It is past I 



GuiDO e7iters with his sword drawn. 

Gut. {to Raimond.) I've sought thee long — 
why art thou Ihigering here ? 
Haste, follow me ! Suspicion with thy name 
/oins that word — Traitor ! 

Maim. Traitor ! — Guido ? 

Gui. Yes ! 
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped ? And there are those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But 

e'en yet. 
In the red current of Provencal blood. 
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good 

sword, 
And follow me ! 

Eaim. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido ! 
'Tis come to this ! — Away ! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou know'st me not ! 

Gui. Raimond di Procida ! — 
If thou art he whom once I deemed so noble — 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raim. {after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfilled. 
E'en in the face of death ; but all is o'er. 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark ! the wild sounds that wait on fearful 

deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast- advancing billows ; and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble, — Speed ! O, speed ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Street in Palermo. 
PaociDA enters. 

Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads 

the air, 
As with the power of midnight ! Ay, where 

death 
Hath passed, there should be silence. But this 

hush 
Of nature' s heart, this breathlessness of all things, 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky. 
With its dark robe of purple thunder clouds. 
Brooding in sullen masses o'er my spirit. 
Weighs like an omen ! Whercft re should this be ? 
Is not our task achieved — the mighty work 
Of our deliverance ! Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 



Instinctive superstitions, will drag down 

Th' ascending soul. And I have fearful bodingi 

That treachery lurks amongst us. — Raimond 

Raimond ! 
O, guilt ne'er made a mien lilie his its garb ! 
It cannot be ! 

MoNTALBA, Guido, atid other Sicilians enter. 

Pro. Welcome ! we meet in joy ! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare, 
Ai'ter this proof of slavery's dread recoil, 
To weave us chains again ? Ye have done well. 

Mon. We have done well. There needs no 
choral song. 
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits. The silence of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest. 
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is still but half achieved, since with his bands 
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts 
And deeds to startle earth are yet required 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. 
Where is thy son ? 

Pro. I know not. Once last night 
He crossed my path, and with one stroke beat 

down 
A SM'crd just raised to smite me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
Wrc-nohed from my grasp ; but when I would 

have pressed him 
To my exulting bosom, he drew back. 
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile. 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that houi 
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask ► 

Ko7i. It matters not. We have deep things 
to speak of. 
Know'st thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils ? 

Pro. I know some voice in secret must have 
warned 
De Couci, or his scattered bands had ne'er 
So soon been marshalled, and in close array 
Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard 

aught 
That may develop this ? 

Mon. The guards we set 
To watch the city gates have seized, this morn 
One whose quick fearful glance and hurried step 
Betrayed his guilty purpose. Mark ! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him — 
The fugitive Provenijal. Read and judge ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



229 



Pro, Where is this messenger ? 

Mon. "Where should he be ? 
rhey slew Rim in their wrath. 

Pro. Unwisely done ! 
Give me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now", if there be such things 
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay 
The pang which gives release ; if there be power 
In execration to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were sinless ; be they heaped 
Upon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark forever ! 

Mo9i. In our passionate blindness, 
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Pro. Whate'er fate hath of ruin 
Fall on his house ! What ! to resign again 
That freedom for whose sake our souls have 

now 
Ingrained themselves in blood ! Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery ? To the scroll 
Why fixed he not his name, so stamping it 
With an immortal infamy, whose brand 
Might warn men from him? Who should be 

so vile ? 
Albert! ? — In his eye is that which ever 
Shrinks from encountering mine ! — But no ! 

his race 
Is of our noblest. O, he could not shame 
That high descent ! Urbino ? — Conti ? — No ! 
They are too deeply pledged. There's one name 
more ! 
- 1 cannot utter it ! Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty, 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings ! Speak your 

thoughts, 
Montalba ! Guido ! — Who should this man be ? 

Mon. Why, Avhat Sicilian youth unsheathed 
last night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turned its edge 
Against his country's chiefs ? — He that did this 
May well be deemed for guiltier treason ripe. 

Pro. And who is he ? 

Mo?i. Nay, ask thy son. 

Pro. My son ! 
vVhat should he know of such a recreant heart ? 
Speak, Guido ! thou'rt his friend ! 

Gut. I would not wear 
ITie brand of such a name ! 

Pro. How ? what means this ? 
A flasli of light breaks in upon my soul ! 
Is ic to blast me ? Yet the fearful doubt 



Hath crept in darkness through my thoughti 

before, 
And been flung from them. Silence ! — Spealj 

not yet ! 
I would be calm, and meet the thunderburst 
With a strong heart. [A pause. 

Now, what have I to hear 
Your tidings ! 

Gui. Briefly, 'twas your son did thus ! 
He hath disgraced your name. 

Pro. My son did thus ! 
Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out ? What did my son .' 
I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick ! 

Gui. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon, 

While we 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages ; 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Provencal maid. 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Mon. What ! should she be spared 
To keep that name from perishing on earth i 
— I crossed them in their path, and raised mj 

sword 
To smite her in her champion's arms. We fougb* 
The boy disarmed me ! And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Gui. Who but he 
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal ! Hath not the traitor stil 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence. 
To win us from our purpose ? All things seerr 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Mon. Know you not there -came, 
E'en in the banquet's hour, from this De Couci 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds ? And have we no* 
Proof, as the noonday clear, that Raimond loves 
The sister of that tyrant ? 

Pro. There was one 
Who mourned for being childless ! Let him now 
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 

Mon. {apart.) You shall be childless too'. 
Pro. Was't you, Montalba ! — Now rejoice, 

say! 
There is no name so near you that its stains 
Should call the fevered and indignant blood 
To your dark cheek ! But I will dash to eart^ 
The weight that presses on my heart, and then 
Be glad as thou art. 



330 



I) 
THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Man. What means this, my lord ? 
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ? 

Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have 
no sons 
r ) tarnish their bright name ? 

Mv'/. I am not used 
To Dear with mockery. 

Pro. Friend ! By yon high heaven, 
I mock thee not ! 'Tis a proud fate to live 
Alone and unallied. Why, what's alone f 
A word whose sense is — free ! — Ay, free from all 
The venomed stings implanted in the heai't 
By those it loves. O, I could laugh to think 
O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes — "A son is born ! " — 

A son ! 
They should say thus — "He that shall knit 

your brow 
To furrows, not of years — and bid your eye 
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its 

shame. 
Is born, and so rejoice ! " Then might we feast, 
And know the cause ! Were it not excellent ? 

Mon. This is all idle. There are deeds to do : 
Arouse tliee, Procida ! 

Pro. Why, am I not 
Calm as immortal justice ! She can strike. 
And yet be passionless — and thus will I. 
I know thy meaning. Deeds to do ! — 'tis well. 
They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: 
There is a youth who calls himself my son. 
His name is Raimond — in his eye is light 
That shows like truth — but be not ye deceived ! 
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature. Will not 

this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba ? Linger not, 
Ye tardy messengers ! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt Guido a7id others. 
Is not this well ? 

Mon. 'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud 
height — 
(Aside.) And then be desolate like me. My woes 
Will at the thought grow light. 

Pro. What now remains 
To be prepared ? There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts 
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
Ajnple and rich, that so their gaze may not 
Explore what lies beneath. [Exit Procida. 

Mo7i. Now this is well ! 
— I htte this Procida ; for he hath won 



In all our councils that ascendency 

And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should 

have been 
Mine by a thousand claims. Had he the strength 
Of wrongs like mine ? No ! lor that name — 

his country — 
He strikes ; my vengeance hath a deeper fount : 
But there's dark joy in this ! — And fate hatb 

barred 
My soul from every other. [Exit Montai.ba 

Scene II. — A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruini 
of an Ancie7it Temple. 

Constance, Anselmo. 

Con. 'Tis strange he comes not ! Is not this 
the still 
And sultry hour of noon ? He should have been 
Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice! 
— " No ! 'tis the shrill cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sjports 
Amidst them in the sun." Hark ! yet again ! 
No ! no ! Forgive me, father ! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions, to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude : 
My heart is full of care. 

Ans. There is no place 
So hallowed as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes 
Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers ? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Con. Hark ! his step ! 
I know it -well — he comes — my Raimond, 
welcome ! 

ViTTOEiA enters, Constance shrinks hack on per- 
ceivinff her. 

O Heaven ! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

Vit. {not observing her.) There is a cloud of 
horror on my soul ; 
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, 
Even as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony : 
Therefore I sought thee now. 0, speak to me 
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound 
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Ans. What recent grief 
Darkens thy spirit thus ? 

Vit. I said not grief. 
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the liowers wbicfc 
wreathe 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



231 



Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, 
Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now 
Have changed their nature : still, I saj', rejoice ! 
There is a cause, Anselmo ! We are free — 
Free and avenged ! Yet on my soul there hangs 
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 
Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, 
There is a cause, 

Ans. How say'st thou, we are free ? 
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult ; but too t ell I know 
They call the stranger lord. 

Vit. Who calls the dead 
Conqueror or lord ? Hush ! breath' it not aloud ; 
The wild winds must not hear it ! Yet again, 
I tell thee we are free ! 

Ans. Thine eye hath looked 
On fearful deeds, for stiU the.r shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. Speak ! I p3jure thee : say. 
How hath this work beer. -v^Tj'ight ? 

Vit. Peace ! ask me net ! 
Why shouldst thou he^r i tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount ? We cannot wake them now ! 
The storm is in my soul, but they are all 
At rest ! — Ay, sweetly may the slaughtered babe 
By its dead mother sleep ; and warlike men. 
Who 'midst the slain have slumbered oft before. 
Making their shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. — Is't not enough ? 

Con. Merciful Heaven ! have such things 
be&n ? And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky ! 
- I am an outcast now. 

Ans, O Thou whose ways 
Clouds mantle fearfully ! of all the blind 
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath. 
How much is ma7i the fiercest ! Others know 
Their limits — yes ! the earthquakes, and the 

storms, 
And the volcanoes ! — he alone o'erleaps 
The bounds of retribution ! Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye, 
Ou such dread scenes unmoved ? 

Vit. Was it for me 
To stay th' avenging sw^rd ? No, though it 

pisrced 
My very soul ! Hark ! hark ! what thrilling 

shrieks 
Eling through the air around me ! Canst thou not 
Bid them be hushed ? O, look not on me thus ? 

Ans. Lady ! thy thoughts lend sternness to 
the looks 
Which are but sad ! Have aU then perished ? all ? 
Was there no mercy ? 

Vit. Mercy ! it hath been 



A word forbidden as th' unhallowed names 

Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared 

To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 

The victims ! — but in vain. Of him nc more ! 

He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 

Will be his meed. 

Con. {coming forward.') O Heaven ! — hia 
name, his name ! 
Is it — it cannot be ! 

Vit. {starting.) Thou here, pale girl ! 
I deemed thee with the dead ! How hast thou 

'scaped 
The snare ? Who saved thee, last of all thy race ! 
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida ? 

Con. It is enough : 
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. 
Must he too die ? 

Vit, Is it e'en so ? Why, then. 
Live on — thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
" Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes — " 
I mean not to betray thee. Thou mayst live ! 
Why should Death bring thee his obliviou' 

balms ! 
He visits but the happy. Didst thou ask 
If liaimond too must die ? It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou 
Didst win him to this treason. 

Con. When did men 
Call mercy treason f Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond ! 

Vit. Maiden ! he must die. 
E'en now the youth before his judges stands ; 
And they are men who to the voice of prayer 
Are as the rock is to the murmured sigh 
Of summer waves ! — ay, though a father sit 
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou ? 

Con. Mercy ! — O, wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved ! 
If thou hast ever loved — 

Vit. If I have loved ? 
It is that love forbids me to relent. 
I am what it hath made me. O'er my soul 
Lightning hath passed and seared it. Could 1 

weep, 
I then might pity — but it will not be. 

Con, O, thou wilt yet relent ! for woman' 
heart 
Was formed to suiTer and to melt. 

Vit, Away ! 
Why should I pity thee ? Thou wilt but provi 
What I have known before — and yet I live ! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne — 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 



For that which is not ; and the weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled by death ; yes, all things may be borne ! 
All, save remors^ But I will 7iot bow down 
My spirit to that dark power ; there was no 

guilt ! — 
Anselmo ! wherefore didst thoii talk of guilt ? 

A)is. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 
quicken thought, 
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vit. Leave me in peace ! 
Is't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words. 
Old man, should gall me, too ? Must all conspire 
Against me ? — thou beautiful spirit ! wont 
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, 
Where art </ioi< vanished ? Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, 
And wilt thou now forsake me ? I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance. 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight paths ; 

— Here I but meet despair ! [^Exit Vittoeia. 
Ans. {to Constance.) Despair not thou. 

My daughter ! He that purifies the heart 
With grief wUl lend it strength. 

Con. {endeavoring to rouse herself.) Did she 
not say 
That some one was to die ? 

Ans. I tell thee not 
rhy pangs are vain — for nature will have way. 
Earth must have tears : yet in a heart like thine, 
Faith may not yield its place. 

Con. Have I not heard 
Some fearful tale ? — Who said that there should 

rest 
Blood on my soul ? What blood ? I never bore 
Hatred, kind father ! unto aught that breathes : 
Raimond doth know it well. Raimond ! — 

High Heaven ! 
It bursts upon me now ! And he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Ans- Her words were strange, 
And her proud mind seemed half to frenzy 
wrought ; 

— Perchance this may not be. 
Con. It irnist not be. 

Why do I linger here ? [She rises to depart. 

Ans. Where wouldst thou go? 

Con. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts 
>L victim in his stead. 

Ans. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 
"Jn certain death ? 



Con. I may not falter now. 

— Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections ? What hath she to do 
In this bleak world alone ? It may be well 
For man on his triumphal course to move, 
Uncumbered by soft bonds ; but we were born 
For love and grief 

Ans. Thou fair and gentle thing, 
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage ! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the King of Terrors ? 

Con. There is strength 
Deep -bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ? — O, now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath not 

shunned 
To look on death for me ! My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faitli 
As high in its devotion. \_Exit Constance 

Ans. She is gone ! 
Is it to perish ? — God of mercy ! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
This pure and lofty creature ! I will follow — 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 
WiU bear her to destruction, faster far 
Than I can track her path. [Exit Anselmo 

Scene III. — Hall of a public Building. 

Peocida, Montalba, Guido, and others, seated at 
071 a Tribunal. 

Pro. The morn lowered darkly ; but the sun 

hath now. 
With fierce and angry splendor, through the 

clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This our high triumph. — Lead the prisoner in 

Raimond is brought in, fettered and guarded. 
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 

— Is this man guilty ? — Look on him, Montalba 
Mon. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look 
Pro. No, thou say'st weU. Her eyes are fil- 
leted. 

Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself - 
But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name — 
Speak ! thou art arraigned of treason. 

Raini. I arraign 
You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt. 
In the bright face of heaven ; and your ow« 

hearts 
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks 






M' 



nsi 




■ , © „«\ ¥ IKl E ® tel a tl § © E IRS IE . 

K dim yiicl aiiiglity iinnsLej' of old. Lijiie ' 
A ie^n]Ac' ahariowv wiLl:i -j-emeD^Lrcmces 
Of Llie rnajeslic pas(' ! - 



i 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



233 



Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to 

shrink, 
With a perturbed and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. Why, -what hath 

wrought 
Ihis change on noble brows ? There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed ! Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, 
All thrilled by life's abhorrent consciousness, 
A.nd sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 
- Away ! come down from your tribunal seat, 
jt'ut off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, 
More than the pestilence. That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 
Pro. Montalba, speak ! 
There's something chokes my voice — but fear 

me not. 
Mon. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, 
Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge of treason ? 

Raim. I will plead 
That cause before a mightier judgment throne, 
liVhere mercy is not guilt. But here I feel 
foo buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 
Th' embo(^d hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast. 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heav- 

ings. 
And thou, thy sword — O valiant chief ! — is 

yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced at 

once 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn ! 

Gui. {aside.) I look upon his mien. 
And waver. Can it be ? My boyish heart 
Deemed him so noble once ! Away, weak 

thoughts ! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine. 
From his proud glance ? 

Pro. O thou dissembler ! thou. 
So skilled to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy. 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee gmlty ! — look on me, and say. 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
30 



And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ? 
Whose was this treachery ? [Shows him papert. 
Who hath promised her* 
(Belike t' appease the manes of the dead) 
At midnight to unfold Palenno's gates. 
And welcome in the foe ? Who hath done thii 
But thou — a tyrant's friend ? 
Raim. Who hath done this ? 
Father ! — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose 

smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. There, 

perchance, 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For 

me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth that murderers m-.y be trai - 

tors, 
Even to each other. 

Pro. (to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue. 
And his eye quails not ! Is this innocence ? 
Mon. No ! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of 

crime. 

— Thou bear'st a gallant mien. But where is 

she 
Whom thou hast bartered fame and life to save, 
The fair Provencal maid ? What ! know'st thou 

not 
That this alone were guilt, to death allied ? 
Was't not our law that he who spared a foe 
(And is she not of that detested race ?) 
Should henceforth be amongst us as a foe > 

— Where hast thou borne her ? speak ! 
Raim. That Heaven, whose eye 

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her : she is safe. 

Pro. And by that word 
Thy doom is sealed. God ! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart ! 

CoNSTANCK enters, and rushes to Raimonb. 
Con. O, art thou found ? 

— But yet, to find thee thus ! Chains, chains 

for thee . 
My brave, my noble love ! Oif with these bonds \ 
Let him be free as air : for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raim. Death has no pang 
More keen than this. O, wherefore art tha'"" 

here ? 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Con. At peace ! -And thou hast thought 



rhus poorly of my love ! But woman's breast 
Hath strength to suffer too. Thy fiither sits 
On this tribunal ; Kaimond, which is he ! 

Raim. My father! who hath lulled thy gen- 
tle heart 
With that false hope ? Beloved ! gaze around — 
See if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 

f Constance, after earnestly examining the coun- 
tenances of the Judges, falls at the feet of 
Procida.] 

Con. Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not away ! for I beheld 
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 
Pass o'er thy troubled ej'e ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father ! Spare him ! take my 

life ! 
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, 
But yet mine all. O, he hath stiU to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raim. Constance, peace ! 
I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Co7i. (still addressing Procida.) O, yet relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me — behold 
I come to be th' atonement ! Let him live 
To crown thine age with honor. In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt 
yield ! 

— Thou art his father ! 

Pro. {after a pause-') Maiden, thou'rt de- 
ceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son ? 

— My son ! Ay ! thus his mother proudly 

smiled — 
But she was noble ! Traitors stand alone. 
Loosed from aU. ties. Why should I trifle thus ? 

— Bear her away ! 

Raitn. {starting forward.) And whither? 

Mon. Unto death. 
Why should she live, when all her race have 
perished ? 

Con. {sinking into the arms q/" Raimond.) 
Raimond, farewell ! 0, when thy star hath 

risen 
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved ! 
I died for thee. 

Raim. High Hea^-^n 1 thou seest these things. 
And yet endur'st them ! Shalt thou die for me. 
Purest and loveliest being ? — but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold — 



Her deep blue eyes are closed : should thi» In 
death ? 

— If thus, there yet were mercy ! Pathei 

father ! 
Is thy heart human ? 

Pro. Bear her hence, I say ! 
Why must my soul be torn ? 

Anselmo e7iters, holding a Crucifix. 

Ans. Now, by this sign 
Of Heaven's prevailing love ! ye shall not harm 
One ringlet of her head. How ! is there not 
Enough of blood upon your burdened souls ? 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime upon crime ? Be ye content : youi 

dreams. 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, 
E'en though this maid be spared ! Constance, 

look up ! 
Thou shalt not die. 

Bairn. O, death e'en now hath veiled 
The light of her soft beauty. Wake, my love 1 
Wake at my voice ! 

Pro. Anselmo, lead her hence. 
And let her live, but never meet my sight. 

— Begone ! my heart will burst. 
Raim. One last embrace ! 

— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part. So love is crush^on earth ! 
But there are brighter worlds ! — Farewell, 

farewell ! 

[He gives her to the care of Anselmo 
Con. (slowly recovering.) There was a voicft 
•which called me. Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth ? Have I not passed 
The bitterness of death ? 
Ans. O, haste away ! 

Con. Yes ! Raimond calls me. He too is re- 
leased 
From his cold bondage. We are free at last, 
And all is well. Away ! 

[She is led out by Anselmo 
Raim. The pang is o'er, 
And I have but to die. 
Mon. Now, Procida, 
Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thint 

aid 
AU thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us — must pronounct 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 
Pro. Ha ! ha ! Men's hearts should be of 
softer mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 



Their children then with an unfaltering voice, 
And -we must tremble thus ! Is it not said 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
•So full of days ? 

Mon. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Pro. Ay, thou say'st right. There yet are 
souls which tower 
As .andmarks to mankind. Well.what's the task ? 

— There is a man to be condemned, you say ? 
Is he then guity ? 

All. Thus we deem of him, 
♦Vith one accord. 
Pro. And hath he nought to plead ? 
Raim. Nought but a soul unstained. 
Pro. Why, that is little. 
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 

them, 
And conscience may be seared. But for this 
sentence ! 

— Was't not the penalty imposed on man, 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die? 

— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 

Obey Heaven's mandate when we cast dark soTils 
To th' elements from among us. Be it so ! 
Such be his doom ! I have said. Ay, now my 

heart 
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth 

press 
Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in 

freedom ! 

— Mountains arc on my breast ! [He sinks back. 
Mo?i. Guards, bear the prisoner 

Back to his dungeon. 

Bairn. Father ! O, look up ; 
Thou art my father still ! 

Gin. (leaving the tribunal, thmws himself on the 
neck of Raimond.) O Raimond, Raimond ! 
If it should be that I have wronged thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me ! 

Raim. Friend of my young days. 
Bo may all-pitying Heaven ! [Raimond is led out. 

Pro. Whose voice was that ? 
Where is he ? — gone ? Now I may breathe 

once more 
In the, free air of heaven. Let us away. 

[^Exeunt omnes. 

ACT V. 

SciNB I. — A Prison dimly lighted. 

Raimond sleeping. Peocida enters. 

Pro. {^gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he 
rhen sleep ? Th' overshadowing night hath 
wrapped 



Earth at her stated hours ; the stars have set 
Their burning watch, and all things hold theil 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sle*! j 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
And thus he slumbers ! " Why, this mien doth 

seem 
As if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny ! " His brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens 
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond ! wake ! 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raim. {starting up.) My father ! Wherefore 

here ? 
I am prepared to die, yet would I not 
Fall by thy hand. 

Pro. 'Twas not for this I came. 

Raim. Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty 

brow 
Why burns the troubled flush ? 

Pro. Perchance 'tis shame. 
Yes, it may well be shame ! — for I have strivea 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpowered 

— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, 
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 

Fall without sound on earth. I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 

Raim. What ! thou ! the austere. 
The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ! 

Pro. Upbraid me not ! 
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste. 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive coursa 

must be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and forever, 

Raim. Let him fly 
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast 
Wherein to shelter from the scoff's of men ; 

— I can sleep calmly here. 
Pro. Art thou in love 

With death and infamy, that so thy choice 

Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thy 

grasp ? 
Raim. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me. 
There needs but flight. What should I bear fron 

this, 
My native land ?- — A blighted name, to rise 
And part me, with its dark remembrances, 
Forever from the sunshine ! O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of 8 nobler destiny 



236 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here 
On earth my hopes are closed. 

Pro. Thy hopes arc closed ! 
And -what were they to mine ? — Thou -wilt not 

fly! 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth as the free, wild birds 
Foster their young : when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds, why should it not 
Be so with us ? 

Raim. O father ! now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to Death. 
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence, 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And, in its vast, oblivious folds, forever 
Give shelter to our faults." When I am gone, 
The mists of passion which have dimmed my 

name 
Will melt like daj'dreams ; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet unstained 
As a clear morning dewdrop. O, the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 

Pro. Now, by just Heaven, 
I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But in this wild 
Suspense — this conflict and vicissitude 

Of opposite feelings and convictions What ! 

Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ? have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 
From the dread mingling of their elements. 
Storms which have rocked the earth ? — and 

shall I now 
Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds ? " Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close, — O pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul -nath some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raim. I will not plead. 
1 will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father ! in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Pro. O my son ! my son ! 
We will not part in wrath. The sternest hearts, 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses. 
Hide something still round which their tendrils 
cling 



With a close grasp, unknown to those who drcsf 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me ! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone ! Why, be it thus ! 
He that doth guide a nation's star shoiild dwell 
High o'er the clouds, in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself. 

Raim. Yet, on the summit. 
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, 
Yet might have soared as high. 

Pro. No, fear thou not ! 
Thou'lt be remembered long. The canker worni 
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raim. " ! not thus — 
I would not thus be thought of." 

Pro. Let me deem 
Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth. 
Then would not haunt me as th' avenging powers 
Followed the parricide. Farewell, fsn-ewell ! 
I have no tears. O, thus thy mother looked. 
When with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile. 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her death 

bed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raim. Now death has lost 
His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent ! 

Pro. {wildly.) Thou innocent ! — Am I thy 
murderer, then ? 
Away ! I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins ? Let the earth drink it. 
Thou wouldst receive our foes ! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfldious lips a welcome cold 
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raim. Father ! yet hear me ! 

Pro. No ! thou'rt skilled to make 
E'en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus ? 

[Goiiig to leave the prison, he turns back for 
a moment. 

If there be aught — if aught — for which thou 

need'st 
Forgiveness — not of me, but that dread Power 
From whom no heart is veiled — delay thou not 
Thy prayer — time hurries on. 

Raim. I am prepared. 

Pro. 'Tis well. [Exit Prooida. 

Raim. Men talk of torture ! — Can they wreak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame 
Half the mind bears - and lives ? My spirit feeli 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



23 



Bewildered ; on its powers this twilight gloom 

Hangs like a -v\eight of earth. — It should be 
morn ; 

Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven's bright 
sun 

Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dun- 
geon, 

T. filing of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit hito an inner cell. 

Scene II. — A Street of Palermo. 
Many Citizens assembled. 

\st Cit. The morning breaks ; his time is al- 
most come : 
Will he be led this way ? 

2d Cit. Ay, so 'tis said. 
To die before th at gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in ! 

Zd Cit. 'Twas a vile plot ! 
And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the 

sounds 
r the air last night ? 

2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter, 
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours 
Which should be silent ? 

Zd Cit. O, the fearful mingling. 
The terrible mimicry of human voices, 
[n every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Of woe and death ! 

2d Cit. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry ; and the low, feeble wail 
Of dying infants ; and the half-suppressed, 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies ! 
And, now and then, there swelled upon the 

breeze 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

\st Cit. Of our own fate, perchance, 
These awful midnight wailings may be deemed 
An ominous prophecy. Should France regain 
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark ! 

[ The sound of trumpets heard at a distance. 

2d Cit. 'Twas but 
A rushing of the breeze. 

Zd Cit. E'en now, 'tis said, 
The hostile bands approach. 

[The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer. 
2d Cit. Again ! that sound 
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
They come, they come ! 



pROCiDA. enters. 
Pro. The foe is at your gates ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet hil 

onset. 
Why are ye loitering here ? 

Cit. My lord, we came 

Pro. Think ye I know not wherefore ? — 'twaa 
to see 
A fellow-being die ! Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on ; and the tenderest hearts 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. 
For this ye came. What ! is our nature fierce, 
Or is there that in mortal agony 
From which the soul, exulting in its strength, 
Doth learn unmortal lessons ? Hence, and arm ! 
Ere the night dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death — for this must be a day 
Of battle ! 'Tis the hour which troubled souls 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up ! Arm ! arm ! 'tis fo 

your homes, 
And all that lends them loveliness — Away 

[Exeun„ 

Scene III. — Prison of Raimond. 
Raimond, Anselmo. 

Raim. And Constance then is safe ! Heave. 
bless thee, father ! 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Atis. I have found 
A safe asylum for thine honored love, 
Where she may dwell until serener days, 
With St. Rosalia's gentlest daughters — those 
Whose hallowed ofRce is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul 
With their soft hymns : and therefore are they 

called 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Raim. O, that name, my Constance ! 
Befits thee well. E'en in our happiest days, 
There was a depth of tender pensivencss 
Far in thine eyes' dark ^zure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace ? 

Ans. Alas ! what should I say ? 

Raim. Why did I ask, 
Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's affections ? O, the thought 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams. 
Which should have been so tranquil ! — and 

her soul. 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love. 
Even unto death will sicken. 

Ans. All that faith 



238 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Can yield of comfort shall assuage her woes ; 
A.nd still, whate'cr betide, the light of heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son ! 
Is thy young spirit mastered, and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change ? 

Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! And yet the cup 
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, 
Crowned with that sparkUng bubble, whose 

proud name 
Is — glory ! 0, my soul, from boyhood's morn, 
Hath nursed such mighty dreams ! It was my 

hope 
To leave a name, whose echo from th' abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds 
Into the far hereafter ; there to be 
A trumpet sound, a voice from the deep tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise ! But this is 

past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame 
To alee-^ forgotten in the dust ; but now — 
O God ! — th' undying record of my grave 
Will be — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One whose 

crime 
Was — to deem brave men might find nobler 

weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Ans. my son ! 
Subdue these troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst 

not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will 

hang 
Th' avenging shadows, which the bloodstained 

soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not. 
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart. 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that stiU and passive fortitude, 
Which is but learned from suffering. Would 

the hour 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at 

hand ! 
Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Df this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon depths. The foe hath 

reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior men, are marshalled, and gone forth, 
In that high hope which makes realities. 
To the red field. Thv father leads them on. 
Ra\m. {starting up ) They are gone forth! 

my father leads them on ! 



All — all Palermo's youth ! No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! They are gon« 

forth ! 
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad — 
It burns upon the air ! The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior plumes, the proud white 

foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the flash. 
The lightning shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his fioating mane 
As a triumphant banner ! Such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Ans. Alas ! be calm ! 
To the same grave ye press — thou that dost 

pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raim. Ay ! Thoit canst feel 
The calm thou wouldst impart ; for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave. 
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourn. Yet call it not the same : 
Their graves who fall in this day's fight will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, 
And chanting hymns in honor of the dead : 
Will mine be such ? 

ViTToaiA rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Vit. Anselmo ! art thou found ? 
Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice, 
Whereby they deem Heaven speaks, thy lifted 

cross. 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, - 
Or shame them back to die. 

Ans. The fugitives ! 
What words are these ? The sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe ! 

Vit. That I should say 
It is too true ! 

Ans, And thou — thou bleedest, lady ! 

Vit. Peace ! heed not me when Sicily is lost ! 
I stood upon the walls, and watched oiir bands, 
As, with their ancient royal banner spread, 
Onward they marched. The combat was be- 
gun. 
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men 
Had sealed their freedom with their blood — 

when, lo ! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vasfjala 
To join th' invader's host. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



239 



Raim, His country's curse 
Rest oil the slave forever ! 

Vit. Then distrust, 
H en of their noble leaders, and dismay, 
That swift contagiwu, on Palermo's bands 
Came like a deadly bUght. They fled ! — O 

shame ! 
E'en now they fij' ! Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps ! 

Raim. Thou hast not named 
Their chief — Di Procida — he doth not fly ! 

Vit. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils. 
Daring the hunters j-et, he proudly strives : 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm, 
With Guido and Montalba by his side. 
Fight but for graves upon the battle field. 

Raim. And I am here ! Shall there be power, 
O God! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains ? 
O for one moment of tlie thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vit. (after gazing upon him earnestly.) Why, 
'twere a deed 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time. 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
Thou art no traitor ! — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! Arise ! go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit stiU. prevail. 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. [She sinlcs back against a pillar. 

Ans. O Heaven ! the lifeblood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow 

dim. 
Who hath done this ? 

Vit. Before the gates I stood, 
And in the name of him, the loved and lost. 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the 

foe, 
Frai^ght with my summons to his viewless home. 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Ans. Yet, O yet, 
It may not be too late.* Help, help ! 

Vit. {to Raimond.) Away ! 
Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty ! 

Attendants enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven ! Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free ! 

'TAe Attendants seem to hesitate. Know ye not 
her 



Who should have vtom your country's dia- 
dem? 

Att. O lady ! we obey. 

[ They take off Raimond's chains. He apringt 
up exultinghj. 

Raim. Is this no dream ? 
Mount, eagle ! thou art free ! Shall I then die 
Not 'midst the mockery of insulting crowds. 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality ? 
It is e'en so ! Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vit. Away, be strong ! 
And let thy battle word, to rule the storm. 
Be — Conradin. [He rushes otct, 

O for one hour of life, 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout 
Of victory ! It will not be ! A mightier poww 
Doth summon me away. 

A71S. To purer worlds 
Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vit. Yes ! he is there, 
All glorious in his beauty ! — Conradin ! 
Death parted us, and death shall reunite ! 
He will not stay — it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. [She dies 

Alls. She is gone ! 
It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, Heaven ' 
[He kneels beside kef 

Scene TV. — Before the Gates of Palermo. 

Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates. 

Voices, {without.) Montjoy ! Montjoy ! St. 
Denis for Anjou ! 
Provencals, on ! 

Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost ! 

Raimond appears in the gateway armed, and car 
rying a baniier. 
Raim. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is' not lost ! 0, shame ! A few brave hearts 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustained. 
And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, 
Still to be called so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvelled at ; and 

souls, 
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, 
Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! Back ! or prepare 
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your ver5 

shrines. 



240 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



To bleed and die in vain ! Turn ! — follow me ! 

" Conradin, Conradin ! " — for Sicily 

Bis spirit fiy;hts ! Remember " Conradin ! " 

[ They begin to rally round him. 
A.J, this is well ! — Now, follow me, and charge I 
[The Provenqals rush in, but are repulsed by 
the Sicilians. — Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Part of the Field of Battle. 
MoNTALBA enters wounded, and supported by Rai- 
MOND, whose face is concealed by his helmet. 
Raim. Here rest thee, warrior. 
Mon. Rest ! ay, death is rest, 
,\nd such will soon be mine. But, thanks to tnee, 
L shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words, 
Or I should bless the valor which hath won, 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my sotil would gird itself. Thy 
name ? 
Raim. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Mont- 
alba, 
jraze — read it thus ! 

[He lifts the visor of his helmet. 
Mon. Raimond di Procida ! 
Raim. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter 
hate : 
But fare thee well ! Heaven's peace be with 

thy soul ! 
I must away. One glorious effort more, 
And this proud field is won. [Exit Raimond. 
Mon. Am I thus humbled ? 

How my heart sinks within me ! But 'tis Death 
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome ! 
That youth — 'twas in his pride he rescued me ! 
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha ! ha ! but he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still baffle him — the grave shall seal 
My lips forever — mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — " Forgive ! " [He dies. 

Scene VI. — Another part of the Field. 
Procida, Guido, and other Sicilians. 
Pro. The day is ours ; but he, the brave un- 
known. 
Who turned the tide of battle — he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him ? 

Alberti is brought in wounded and fettered. 
Alb. Procida ! 

Pro. Be silent, traitor ! Bear him from my 
sight, 
Unto your deepest dungeons 



Alb. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son 

Pro. Speak, speak ! 

Alb. Thy son 
Knows not a thought of guilt. That traitoroui 

plot 
Was mine alone. [He is led away. 

Pro. Attest it, earth and heaven ! 
My son is guiltless ! Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! 
My son ! He lives, he lives ! His voice shall speai 
Forgiveness to his sire ! His name shall cast 
Its brightness o'er my soul ! 

Gtii. O day of joj' ! 
The brother of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears ! 

Anselmo enters. 

Pro, Anselmo, welcome ! 
In a glad hour we meet ; for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Ans. And victorious ! By his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Pro. How ! — the unknown 

Ans. Was he ! 
Thy noble Raimond ! — by Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Pro. Now my cup 
Of joy too brightly mantles ! Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart — and die ; 
For life hath nought beyond. Why comes he 

not? 
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy ! 

Ans. Temper this proud delight. 

Pro. What means that look ? 
He hath not fallen ? 

A71S. He lives. 

Pro. Away, away ! 
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs ! [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. — Garden of a Convent. 

» 
Raimond is led in loounded, leaning on AttendantSx 

Raim. Bear me to no dull couch, but let 
me die 
In the bright face of nature ! Lift my helm 
That I may look on heaven. 

\st Att. {to 2d Attendant.) Lay him to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid ; but «hou 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



2i\ 



Return unto the field, for high-born men 
There need the peasant's aid. 

[Exit 2d Attendant. 
{To Raim.) Here gentle hands 

Shall tend thee, warrior ; for, in these retreats, 
Thei/ dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. Mayst thou live to bless them ! 
[Exit 1st Attendant. 
Raim. Thus have I wished to die ! 'Twas a 
proud strife ! 
My father blessed th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Blessed him, alas ! because unknown ;) and 

Guide, 
Beside him bravely struggling, cilled aloud, 
" Noble Sicilian, on ! " O, had they deemed 
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurned 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance ; and their 

looks 
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is on.^, 
Whose eye ne'er turned on mine but its blue light 
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness ! O, might the soul, 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish ! 
- Is't not her voice ? 

Constance enters speaking to a Nun, who turns 
into another path. 
Con. 0, happy they, kind sister ! 
Whom thus ye tend ; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men side by side, when the roused 

heart 
Beats proudly to the last ! There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 
[She approaches Raimond. 

Young warrior, is there aught Thou here, 

my Raimond ! 

Thou here — and thus ! O, is this joy or woe ? 

Raim. Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love ! 

E'en on the grave's dim verge. Yes ! it is joy ! 

My Constance ! victors have been crowned, ere 

now, 
With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus, 
E'en yet, with me ! They freed me, when the foe 
Had half prevailed, and I have proudly earned. 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Con. O, speak not thus — to die ! 
These wounds may yet be closed. 

[She attempts to bind his wounds. 
Look on me, love ! 
Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien — 
'Tis full of hope ! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems bom to be immortal ! 
31 



Raim. 'Tis e'en so ! 
The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her ; all her glorious hopes, and dreams. 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of th' untrodden path 
Which lies before her ; and encircled thus, 
A while she sits in dying eye.i, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell . Thy gentle cares 
Ar 3 vain, and yet I bleos them 

Con. Say not vain ; 
The dying look not tlms. Wo shall not part ! 

Raitn. I have seen Death ere now, and known 
him wear 
FuU many a changeful aspect. 

Con. O, but none 
Radiant as thine, my warrior ! Thou wilt live! 
Look round thee ! all is sunshine. Is not this 
A smiling world ? 

Raim. Ay, gentlest love ! a world 
Of joyous beauty and magnificence. 
Almost too fair to leave ! Yet must we tame 
Our ardent hearts to this ! O, weep thou not ; 
There is no home for liberty, or love. 
Beneath these festal skies ! Be not deceived ; 
My way lies far beyond ! I shall be soon 
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal 

weeds 
Casting off' meaner passions, yet, we trust, 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Con. And must this be ? 
Heaven, thou art merciful ! — O, bid our souls 
Depart together ! 

Raim. Constance ! there is strength 
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly, for me : arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
— It is upon me now ! 

Con. I will be calm. 
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There »« 
A world (ay, let us seek it !) where no bliffht 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon ! 

Pkocida and Anselmo enter. Pkocida, on see- 
ing Raimond, starts back. 

Ans. Lift up thy head. 
Brave youth, exultingly ! for lo ! thine hour 
Of glory comes ! O, doth it come too late? 
E'en now the false Albert! hath confessed 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doomea 
To be th' atonement. 



Bairn. 'Tis enough ! Rejoice, 
Rejoice, my Constance ! for I leave a name 
O'er which thou mayst weep proudly ! 

[He sinks back. 
To thy breast 
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touched my veins. 

Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond ? 
Alas ! thine eye grows dim ; its wandering 

glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Bairn. Haste, haste, and tell my father 
I was no traitor ! 

P)-o. {rushing forward.) To thy father's heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs — return ! 
Speak to me, Raimond ! — thou wert ever kind. 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven ! That word from none but 

thee 
My lips e'er asked. — Speak to me once, my boy. 
My pride, my hope ! And it is with thee thus ? 
Look on me yet ! — O, must this woe be borne ? 
Bairn. Off with this weight of chains ! it is 
not meet 
For a crowned conqueror ! — hark ! the trum- 
pet's voice ! 

'A sound of triumphant music is heard grad- 
ually approaching. 
Is't not a thrilling call ? What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus ? — Hence ! I am free again ! 
Now swells your festal strains — the field is 

won! 
Sing to me glorious dreams. \B.e dies. 

Ans. The strife is past ; 
rht-re fled a noble spirit ! 

Con. Hush ! he sleeps — 
Disturb him not ! 

Ans. Alas ! this is no sleep 
From -which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earth.y hope is o'er ! 

[ The music continues appproaching. Guido 
enters with Citizens and Soldiers. 

Gui. The shrines are decked, the festive 
torches blaze — 
■^iMiere is our brave deliverer? We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Ans. Ye come too late. 
The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. [ The music ceases. 

Pro. {after a pause.) Is this dust 
I look on — Raimond ? 'Tis but a sleep ! — a 

smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. * Raimond, wake ! 



God ! and this was hb triumphant day ! 
My son, my injured son .' 

Co7i. {starting.) Art thjx(. his father ! 

1 know thee now. — Hence ! with thy dark stem 

eye. 
And thy cold heart ! Thou canst not wake him 

now ! 
Away ! he will not answer but to me — 
For none like me hath loved him ! He is mine 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Pro. O, he kneio 
Thy love, poor maid ! Shrink from me now no 

more ! 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony, 
Of my suppressed affection ? I have learned 
All his high worth in time to deck his grave. 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed? Raimond! — speak! — for- 
give ! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer ! hear ! 
— Wliy, what a world is this ! Truth ever 

bursts 
On the dark soul too late : and glory crowns 
Th' unconscious dead. There comes an hour to 

break 
The mightiest hearts ! — My son ! my son ! ia 

this 
A day of triumph ! Ay, for thee alone ! 

[He throws himself upon the body of Raimond. 
Curtaiji falls. 

AlfNOTATIOKS ON THE "VESPERS OF PALERMO." 

" The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic 
productions of our author. The period in which the scene is 
laid is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The 
whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of 
moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. 
The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for vir 
tue : and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity oi 
his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubt 
ful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, 
that some of its best parts have already found their way into 
an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus con- 
tribute to give lessons of morality to those who are mosl 
susceptible of the interest of tragedy. 

" ft may not be so generally remembered, that the same 
historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, 
about the same time that the English one was written, and 
by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitut" 
not to give the preference to Mrs. Hcmans, for invention and 
interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to 
probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of 
finished elegance." — Professor No.ito.n, in JVortU .Ameri- 
can Review, 1827. 

It was in 1891, as mentioned in the prefatory note, tha 
M rs. Hemans co nposed The Vespers of PaU.miCy and that th« 



AJNMOTATiOISS OJN iHE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



241 



MS. was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covetit 
Garden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its 
fate were removed, and tlie result was as follows. In giving 
it liere, let the reader remember, meanwliile, that we are 
carried forward, fir the space of time mentioned, beyond the 
pale of our literaiy chronology. 

" After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties," 
writes her sister, " ihe fite of the tragedy, so long in abey- 
ance, was now drawing to a crisis. Every thing connected 
with its approaching representation was calculated to raise 
the highest hopes of success. ' All is goingon,' writes Mrs. 
Hemans on the 27lh November, ' as well as I could pes ibiy 
desire. Only a short time will yet elapse befure the ordeal 
is over. I received a message yesterday from Mr. Kemble, 
uiforming me of the unanimous opinion of the greenroom 
jonclave in favor of tlie piece, and exhorting me to " be of 
good courage." Murray has given me two hundred guineas 
'bt the copyright of the " tragedy, drama, poem, compo- 
sition, or book," as it is called in the articles which I signed 
yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of 
Fro i :a — why or wherefore I know not ; and out of several 
others which I proposed to them, The Vespers of PaUrmo 
has been finally chosen.' 

" Under these api)arently favorable auspices, the piece was 
produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 
1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr. Young, 
Mr. C. Kemble, Mr. Yates, Mrs. Hartley, and Miss F. H. 
Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news of its re- 
ception could reach St. Asaph. Not only Mrs. Hemans's 
own family, but all her more immediate friends and neigh- 
bors, were wrought up to a pitch of intense expectation. 
Various newspapers were ordered expressly for the occasion, 
tind the post ofiice was besieged at twelve o'clock at night, 
by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager to be the 
first heralds of the triumph so undoubtiiigly anticipated. 
The boys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable 
state of excitement, and were all lying awake ' to hear 
about mamma's play ; ' and perhaps her bitterest moment 
if mortification was, when she went up to their bedsides, 
(vhich she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to 
announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the 
ground, and that the performance had ended in all but a 
failure. The reports in the newspapers were strangely con- 
tradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly illiberal : 
but all which were written in any thing like an unbiased 
tone concurred entirely with the private accounts, not mere- 
ly of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers, 
in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency 
of the actress who personated Constance, and who absolute- 
ly seemed to be under the influence of some infatuating 
spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on scenes the 
most pathetic and afTecting, and, to crown all, dying gra- 
tuitously at the close of the piece. The acting of Young and 
Kemble in the two Procidi was universally pronounced to 
have been beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions 
showed a determination to do all possible justice to the au- 
thor. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, ap- 
Dlause decidedly predominated : still the marks of disappro- 
bation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, 
who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, fill 
another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the 
oart of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. 
Mrs. Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh 
sxperiment should he made. ' Mr. Kemble,' writes she to 
a friend, ' will not hear of The Vespers being driven off the 
utage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is 
now luiwell, shall be sufficientl) recovered to l»\m her 



part ; but I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fieij 
ordeal through whicli I have passed, from such anothe 
ti.al. Mr. Kemble attributes the failure, w thout the slight 
est hesitation, to what ho delicately calls " a singularity of 
intonation in one of the actresses." I have also heard from 
Mr. Milman, Mr. J. S. Coleridge, and several others, with 
whom there is but one opinion as to the cause of the dis- 
aster.' 

" Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse 
with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or with 
greater readiness to turn lor consolation to the kindness and 
sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. Il 
would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mi 
Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment. 

' Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823. 

" ' My DEAR Sir: It is difficult to part with the hopes 
of three years without some painful feelings ; but your kind 
letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to 
describe. I will not say that it revives my hopes of success, 
because 1 think it better that I slionld fix my mind to pre- 
vent those hopes from gaining any ascendency ; but it sets ii 
so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointmen 
has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends 
from whom 1 have heard on this occasion express but one 
opinion. As to Miss Kelly's acting, and its fatal effect on 
the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will 
be impossible to counteract the unfavorable impression 
which this nnist have produced, and I almost wish, as far 
as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt may 
not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on 
the subject. I have not heard from Mr. Kemble ; but I have 
written both to him and to Mr. Young, to express my grate 
ful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the piece. 
As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by tlie 
extreme severity with which I have been treated in the 
morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am 
sure I should not have attached the slightest value to theu 
praise ; but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement foi 
my temerity — for a female who shrinks from such th-ngs 
has certainly no business to write tragedies. 

" ' For your support and assistance, as well as that of my 
other friends, I cannot be too grateful ; nor can I ever con 
sider any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given 
me the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the 
recollection of so much long-tried kindness. — Ever believe 
me, my dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged 

" ' F. Hemans.' 

"Notwithstanding the determination of the managers 
again to bring forward The Veprrs, a sort of fatality seemed 
to attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continually 
arising to prevent the luckless Constance from obtainma an 
efficient representative on the London stage. Under tliese 
circumstances, Mr. Kemble at length confessed that he could 
not recommend the reproduction of the piece ; and Mrs 
Hemans acquiesced in the decision, with feelings wliich 
partook rather of relief than of disappointment. She never 
ceased to speak in the warmest terms of Mr. Kemble's lib- 
eral and gentlemanly conduct, both before and after the ap- 
pearance of the piece, and of his surpassing e-xertions at th« 
time of its representation. 

" It was with no small degree of surprise that, in tht 
course of the following February, she learnea, through th« 
medium of a letter from Mrs. Joanna Baillie,i that the- 

1 Though Mrs. Hemans had never the advantage of being per- 
sonally known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional 



244 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



tragedy wag shortly to be represented at tlie Edinburgh thea- 
tre — Mrs. Henry Siddons undertaking the part of Con- 
stance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and 
the following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one 
of the zealous friends who had been instrumental in this 
arrangement, will prove how well their kindly intentions 
were lulfiUed : — 

' The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our 
most sanguine e.xpectations, and was announced for repe- 
tition on Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The 
actors seem to have done wonders, and every one appeared 
to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own exer- 
tions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger 
Procida. The first recognition between father and son was 
acted by them to such perfection, that one of tlie most 
hearty and unanimous plaudits followed that ever was 
heard. ..... 

" ' Kvery reappearance of the gentle Constance won the 
spectators more and more. The scene in the judgment hall 
carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handker- 
chiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs. Siddons's searching 
the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as 
if to find Raimond's father was to save hini, was perfect. 
She flew round the circle — went, as if distracted, close up 
to judge after judge — paused before Procida, and fell pros- 
trate at his feet. The effect was magical, and was mani- 
fested by three repeated bursts of applause.' 

" A neatly-turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though 

interchange of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up 
between them, was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges 
she possessed. It was always delightful to her when she could 
love tlie character, as well as admire the talents, of a celebrated 
author; and never, surely, was there an example better titled to 
call forth the willing tribute of veneration, both towards the woman 
and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs. Baillic, Mrs. Ilemans 
thus apologized for indulging in a strain of egotism, which the 



not declared, to be the production of Sir Wa'.ter Scott, wsu 
recited by Mrs. H. Siddonj. When deference to a fenaU 
was there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause en-^ued ; but 
when generosity to a stranger waa hespoken, the house ab 
solutely rang with huzzas. 

" ' I knew how much you would rejoice,' wrote JMrs 
Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ' in the issue of my 
Edinburgh trial ; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and 
■I think amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckon 
a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it has put me in 
possession I had written to thank him for the kindness he 
had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an 
answer ; but it came, and you would be delighted with its 
frank and unaffected kindliness. He acknowledges the epi- 
logue, " stuffed," as he says it was, " with parish jokes 
and bad puns ; " and courteously says, '.hat his country folks 
have done more credit to themselves than to me, by their 
reception of The fespcrs.^ 

" To another uncompromising champion she wrote : — ' 1 
must beg you will " bearoui ficullies meekly : " you really 
seem to be rather in an intox-CaleJ state ; and if we indulge 
ourselves in this way, I am a'raid we shall have something 
to sober us. I dare say I mi.st expect some sharp criticism 
from Edinburgh ere all this is over ; but any thing which 
deserves the name of c;-i(icis:a I can bear. I believe I could 
point out more faults in Tke Vesp.rs myself than any one 
has done yet.' " — Memoir, pp. 69-7G. 



nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify : " The 
kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over all your 
writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make 
me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend." 
It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how 
graciously that "kindly warmth of heart" would be extended to 
those of her children, who are more fortunate than herself in 
enjoying the personal intercourse she would have prized so highly. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 
GEORGE THE THIRD. 



"Among many nations was there no king like him." — Nehe- 

MIAH. 

" Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man faUen this 
day in Israel ?"— Samuel. 



Another warning sound ! The funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strikes on th' awakened heart from shore to 
shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod ; 
And the long-suifering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath returned to God ! 
Yet may not England o'er her father weep : 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many and 
too deep. 



Vain voice of Reason, hush ! — they yet must flo\r. 

The unrestrained, involuntary tears ; 
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe, 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanished 
years. 
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief. 

Now that the exile of the soul is past, 
And Death, blessed messenger of Heaven's re- 
lief, 
Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last ; 
For him eternity hath tenfold day : 
We feel, we know, 'tis thus — yet nature will 
have way. 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak. 
Saddening the scene where once it noblj 
reigned, 

A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, 
Stamped with its fiery record, he remained [ 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



245 



Around that shattered tree still fondly clung 
Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 

*'resh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 
Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true ; 

While England hung her trophies on the stem, 

That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! O, mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies ? 
His was the voice which roused, as from the 
tomb, 
The realm's high soul to loftiest energies ! 
His was the spirit o'er the isles which threw 
The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying spark of pure and generous 
thought ; 
The star of tempests ! beaming on the mast,' 
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deep- 
ening fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his 
worth, 
Strength, as of inspiration, filled the land ; 
A young but quenchless flame went brightly 
forth, 
Kindled by him — who saw it not expand ! 
Such was the will of Heaven. The gifted seer, 
Who with his God had communed, face to 
face. 
And from the house of bondage and of fear. 

In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race ; 
He, through the desert and the waste their 

guide. 
Saw dimly from afar the promised land — and 
died. 

O full of days and virtues ! on thy head 
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot ; 
Fathers have sorrowed o'er their beauteous 
. dead. 
Eyes, quenched in night, the sunbeam have 
forgot ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years. 
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at 
length ; 
But Pain for thee had filled a cup of tears. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eter- 
nal's hand. 

1 The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears 
Uout a ship during tempests ; if seen upon the mainmast, it 
is considered by the sailt 's as an omen of good weather. — 
See Oi.MPi£R'8 Voyages. 



Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreama 

Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied ; 
But what to thee the splendor of its lieams ? 
The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer'* 
pride ! 
Nations leaped up to joy — as streams that burst, 
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen 
chain. 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they 
nursed, 
Roll in exulting melody again ; 
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
— but thine. 

O, what a dazzling vision, by the veil 
That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from 
thee, 
When sceptred chieftains thronged with palms 
to hail 
The crowning isle, th' anointed of the sea > 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice — rich pageants glittered by, 
And stately revels imaged, in their miith. 

The old magnificence of chivalry. 
They reached not thee — amidst them, yet alont. 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet there was mercy still ! If joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude. 
Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass 
o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swelled on high 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain with dread solemnity ! 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom. 
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the 
tomb. 

And she who, tried Irtirough all the stoi-my past 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour — 

Watched o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last 

Sustained, inspired, by strong affection't 

power ; 

If to thy soul her voice no miisic bore — 

If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks that fondly would explore 
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
O, thou wert spared the pang that would hav« 

thrilled 
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxioui 
bosom stilled. 



Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's 
prime, 
Youth with its glory — in its fulness, age — 
A.11, at the gates of their eternal clime, 
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrim- 
age ; 
The land wore ashes for its perished flowers. 
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, mean- 
while. 
Didst Malk unconscious through thy royal tow- 
ers, 
The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 
A.S a tired warrior, on his battle plain, 
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners 
and the slain. 

And -who can tell what visions might be thine ? 
The stream of thoiight, though broken, still 
was pure ! 
StiU o'er that wave the stars of heaven might 
shine 
Where earthly image would no more endure ! 
Though many a step, of once familiar sound. 

Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear, 
And voices breathed forgotten tones around, 
Which that paternal heart once thrilled to 
hear : 
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 
To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse ; 
Unstained by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course : 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss. 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye; 
(Vnd, closing up each avenue of bliss, 

Murmur their summons to " despair and die." 
No ! e'en though joy depart, though reason 

cease, 
Btill virtue's ruined home is redolent of peace. 

Diey might be with thee stdl — the loved, the 
tried, 
The fair, the lost — they might be with thee 
StiU! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapor of terrestrial ill. 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was poured, 
Jls passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 
Those forms, from us withdrawr — to thee 
restored ! 



Spirits of holiness, in light revealed. 
To commune with a mind whose source of teari 
was sealed. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above, 

Those viewless regions where the weary resti 
Severed from earth, estranged from mortal love, 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest ? 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty ? — did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight. 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew ? 
O, Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, 
Healing the broken heart ; it smites, but ne'el 
forsakes. 

These may be fantasies — and this alone. 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, 

Rest, in thy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all 

The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thj 
brow, 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to inthrall, 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now ; 
Whose love around thee still its off'erings shed. 
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tributs 
to the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne on the wings of morning to the skies, 
May cast one glance of tenderness behind 

On scenes once hallowed by its mortal ties, 
How much hast thou to gaze on ! All that lay 

By the dark mantle of thy soul concealed — 
The might, the majesty, the proud array 

Of England's march o'er many a noble field- 
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, 
Shine like some glorious land viewed fi'om an 
Alpine height. 

Away, presumptuous thought ! Departed saia 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint, 

Seen from the birthplace of celestial day 
0, pale and weak the sun's reflected rays. 

E'en in their fervor of meridian heat. 
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy se 
And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode, 
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! Yes, thy place is void 
Within our hearts ! there veiled thine image 
dwelt. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE in. 



247 



But cherished still ; and o'er that tie destroyed, 
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must 
melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway 

Thousands were born who now in dust repose ; 

And many a head, with years and sorrows gray. 

Wore youth's bright tresses when thy star 

arose ; 

And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn. 

Hath filled our sphere with light, now to its 

source withdrawn. 

Earthquakes have rocked the nations ; things 
revered, 
Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition reared 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires that long had slumbered, pent 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force. 
Bursting their prison house, each bulwark rent, 
And swept each holy barrier from their 
course. 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava flood. 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient land- 
marks stood. 

Ue they eternal ! — be thy children found 

Still to their country's altars true like thee ! 
And while " the name of Briton " is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free, 
With the high feelings at the word which 
swell, 
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's 
flame. 
Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so 
well, 
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's 

dust. 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

All else shall pass away ! — the thrones of kings. 

The very traces of their tombs, depart ; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, 
Heirlooms from race to race ! And O, in days 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, 
WTien our sons learn " as household words " thy 
praist, 

btill on thine offspring may ttiy spirit rest ! 



And many a name of that imperial Une, 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's songs, 
with thine ! 

[" The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty : 
unlike courtly themes in general, this Is one of the deepest 
and most lasting interest. Buried as the king had long been 
in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joya 
of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, 
or the piercing sorrow, ^^'hicll we have felt on some other 
public losses ; but the heart must be cold indeed that could, 
on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of that ven- 
erable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a 
more than common sympathy. There was something in his 
character so truly national — his very errors were of so 
amiable a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his 
nature was so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his 
splendid court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a 
husband, so good a father, so safe an example — he so 
thoroughly understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated 
the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects — 
and, with all this, the sorrows from Heaver, rained down 
upon his head in so ' pitiless and pelting a storm : ' all theso 
— his high qualities and unparalleled sufferings — form 
such a subject for poetry, as nothing, we should imagine, but 
its difficulty and the expectation attending it, would prevent 
from being seized upon by the greatest poets of the day. We 
will not say that Mrs. Hemans has filled the whole canvas 
as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is 
beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the 
sulJBCt ; it is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads 
us up through all iJie dismal colorings of the foreground to 
that bright and consoling prospect which should close every 
Christian's reflections on such a matter. An analysis of so 
short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we have already 
transgressed our limits ; we will, therefore, give but one 
extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release ouj 
readers : — 

' Yet there was mercy still 1 If joy no more,' etc. 

" It is time to close this article, i Our readers will have 
seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much inter- 
ested by our subject. Who or what Mrs. Hemans is, we know 
not : we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity, 

' Tristia TitiB 

Solatur cantu, ' 

If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncom- 
monly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she 
seems, from the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a 
higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, or even 
the ' sacred muse ' herself can impart. Still there is a 
pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even v^ a 
wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned ; and such fame as 
may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientiously 
bestow. In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure 
in thought and language : her later poems are of higher 
promise ; they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic." — 
Quarterly Reoiew, vol. xxiv.] 

1 This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished 
editor, WilUam Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on " Tha 
Kestoration of the Works of Art to Italy," " Tales and Historic 
Scenes in Verse," " Translations from Camoens," etc., " The S(!«» 
tic," and " Stanzas to the Memory of the late King." 



248 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



SECOND SEKIES. 



[After the first collection of lier Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs. Hemans contemplated a secon* 
series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under th» 
same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author's literary progress, we have ven- 
tured not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, " for uniformity's sake."] 



THE MAREMMA. 

[" Nello BELLA. PiETBA had espoused a lady of noble 
family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia, Her beauty was 
the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her 
husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and 
groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate 
resolution of Othello. It is ditficult to decide whether the 
lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her 
husband brought her into the Maremma, which then, as 
now, was a district destructive of health. He never told 
iiis unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so 
dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint 
or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, 
without answering her questions, or listening to her remon- 
strances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should 
destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she 
died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the 
dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived 
her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, 
n this incident, all the materials of an ample and very 
poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. 
He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain 
who fell fighting on the Fame side with him in the battle of 
Campaldino ; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the 
Treacher)' of the House of Este ; the third was a woman un- 
known to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, 
'.urned towards him with these words : — 

' Kecorditi di me ; che son la Pia, 
Sienna mi fe, diofecemi Maremma, 
Salri colui che inanellata pria 
Dieposando m' avea con la sua gemma.' " 

PuEOATORio, cant T. 

— Edinburgh Review, No. Ivii.] 

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 
Where glowing suns their purest light diffuse, 
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise. 
And Nature lavishes her warmest hues ; 
B ut trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath — 
A%* ay ! her charms are but the pomp of Death ! 

He in tne vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling. 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee 

throws ; 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, 
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose ; 
And the soft sounds that through the foliage 

sigh 
But woo thee st H to slumber and to die. 



Mysterious danger lurks, a siren there, 

Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, 

But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 

And veiled in flowers, that smile to deck thy 

tomb ; 
How may we deem, amidst their deep array, 
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray ? 

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure ! Can it be 
That the&c, but charm us with destructive wiles J 
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee 
Danger is masked in beauty — death in smiles ? 
O, still the Circe of that fatal shore. 
Where she, the Sun's bright daughter, dwelt of 
yore! 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads. 

Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign. 

And viewless blights o'er many a landscape 

sheds, 
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain ; 
O'er fairy bowers and palaces of state 
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 

And pillared halls, whose airy colonnades 
Were formed to echo music's choral tone. 
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, 
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone ; 
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, 
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. 

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty 

gleaming, 
'Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress r's& 
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities. 
Wild visions ! — there no sylvan powers con 

vene : 
Death reigns the genius of th' Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hUls of Rome ! that bear 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow. 
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air 
Extends the desert of his empire now ; 



THE MAREMMA. 



249 



Broods o'er the ■wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, 
And makes the Caesars' ruined halls his home. 

Youth, valor, beauty, oft have felt his power. 
His crowned and chosen victims : o'er their lot 
Ha' h fond affection wept — each blighted flower 
I'- turn was loved and mourned, and is forgot. 
Bt; one who perished left a tale of woe, 
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls. 
Is floating joyous on the summer air ; 
And there are banquets in her stately halls, 
And graceful revels of the gay and fair, 
And brilliant wreaths the altar have arrayed. 
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest 
maid. 

To that young bride each grace hath Nature 

given 
Which glows on Art's divinest dream : her eye 
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven — 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose 

form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colors 

warm.' 

But is she blest ? — for sometimes o'er her smile 
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast ; 
And in her liquid glance there seems a while 
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the 

past ; 
fet soon it flies — a cloud that leaves no trace, 
On the sky's azure, of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 
Remembrance of some early love or woe, 
Faded, yet scarce forgotten — in her eyes 
Wakening the half-formal tear that may not 

flow, 
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 
Where still some pining thought comes darkly 

o'er our mirth. 

The world before her smiles — its changeful gaze 
She hath not proved as yet ; her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of 

praise 
IS still the joyous herald of her way ; 
And beauty's Ught around her dwells, to throw 
O'er every scene its own resplendent glow. 

■^ \i> allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his w.'fe, 
Mona Lisa, supposed to be the r.ost perfect imitation of 
•ature ever exhibited in painting 
32 



Such is the young Bianca — graced with all 
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give ; 
Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall 
Such dreams as ne'er life's early bloom survive; 
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is 

fraught 
With sweetness, bom of high and heavenly 

thought. 

And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith 
Is brave and noble — child of high descent. 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
'Mid slaughtered heaps, the warrior's monu- 
ment ; 
And proudly marbhalled his carroccio's" way 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous commanding mien, 
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtlv 

grace ; 
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, 
Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face. 
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye — 
But e'en while yet we gaze, its quick wildflashei 

die. 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing. 
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 
And veil the workings of each darker feeling, 
Deep in his soul concentrating its force ; 
But yet he loves — O, who hath loved, nor known 
Affection's power exalt the bosom all its owp ' 

The days roll on — and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear. 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed ; her fate 
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o'ercast. 
Have jealous doubts transformed to wrath and 

hate 
The love whose glow expression's power sur- 
passed ? 
Lo ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom 

O, can he meet that eye, of light serene, 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth 
And view that bright intelligence of mien 
Formed to express but thoughts of loftiest wortl^ 

S A sort of consecrated war ctaarioL 



250 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Yet deem thiit vice within that heart can reign ? 
'- How shall he e'er confide in aught on earth 
again ? 

Ln silence oft, ^N-ith strange vindictive gaze, 
Transient, yet filled with meaning, stern and 

wild, 
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys. 
Then turns away, and fixes on her child 
So dark a glance as thrills a mother's mind 
With some vague fear scarce owned, and unde- 
fined. 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore, 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadowed o'er. 
And sigliing winds, that murmur through the 

wood. 
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian fl.ood. 

Fair is that house of solitude — and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread, 
A sun-bright waste of beauty ; yet an air 
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed. 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain, 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 
'Mid founts, and cypress walks, and olive groves : 
All sleep in sunshine 'neath cerulean skies, 
And still around the sea breeze lightly roves ; 
Yet every trace of man reveals alone, 
That there life once hath flourished — and is 
gone. 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing. 
The summer air, deceit in every sigh, 
Came fraught with death, its power no sign re- 
vealing. 
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by ; 
And strains of mirth and melody have flowed 
Where stands, aU voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her lord remorseless bear 
Bianca with her child. His altered eye 
And brow a stem and fearful calmness wear. 
While his dark spirit seals their doom — to die; 
^d the deep bodings of his victim's heart 
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part. 

[t is the summer's glorious prime — and blending 
its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, 



And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of solitude and light. 

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breath- 
ing, 
Decked with young flowers the rich Maremma 

glows. 
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, 
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows. 
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thi/ tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale. 
Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power, 
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale ; 
And fatal in its softness, day by day. 
Steals from that eye some trembling spark 
away. 

But sink not yet ; for there are darker woes, 
Daughter of Beauty ! in thy spring morn fad- 
ing- 
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those 
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are 

shading ! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot ! 
'Tis agony — but soon to be forgot ! 

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath. 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death ? 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the 
last! 

Such pangs were thine, young mother ! Thou 

didst bend 
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head ; 
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend. 
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, 
And watch his patient, supplicating eye 
Fixed upon thee — on thee ! — who couldst no 

aid supply ! 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 
Through those dark hours : to thee the wind's 

low sigh. 
And the faint murmur of th^ ocean's flow. 
Came like some spirit whispering — " He must 

die ! " 
And thou didst vainly claSi him to the breast 
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope 

had blest. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



26) 



Tis past — that fearful trial ! — he is gone ! 
But thou, sad mourner ! hast not lono; to weep ; 
The hour of nature's chartered peace comes on, 
And thou shalt share thine infant's hoh' sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet — and death shall be 
A.S a bright messenger from heaven to thee. 

But ask not — hope not — one relenting thought 
From him who doomed thee thus to waste away, 
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance 

fraught. 
Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay ; 
A.nd coldly, sternly, silently can trace 
The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

A.nd yet the day of vain remorse shall come. 
When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shalt 

rise 
As an accusing angel — and thy tomb, 
A martyr's shrine, be hallowed in his eyes ! 
Then shall t'nine innocence his bosom wring, 
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs 

could sting. 

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven — for all on earth, 
Young sufferer ! fades before thee. Thou art 

lone : 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy 

birth, 
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own ! 
It is our task to suffer — and our fate 
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

The season's glory fades — the vintage lay 
Through joyous Italy resounds no more ; 
But mortal loveliness hath passed away. 
Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store. 
Beauty and youth are gone — behold them such 
As death hath made them with his blighting 
touch ! 

The summer's breath came o'er them — and they 

died! 
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, 
Called forth young nature in her festal pride, 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and light all flowers — but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 
lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave ; 
But o'er that humble cypress^ shaded dwelling 
The dewdrops glisten and the wild flowers 
wave — 



Emblems more meet, in transient light and 

bloom, 
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to 

the tomb ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

[The Secret Tribunal, 1 wliich attained such formidable 
power towards the close of the fi)Uiteeiith century, is men 
tioned in history as an institution publicly known so early aa 
in the year 1911. Its members, who were called Free Judges 
were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremen- 
dous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, 
without exception, if tliey had connnitted any offence cog- 
nizable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation 
to relate all they knew concerning tlie affair, to cite the 
accused, and, in case of Iiis condemnation, to pursue and put 
him to death wherever he miglit be met with. The proceed 
ings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the 
greatest mystery ; and though it was usual to summon a 
culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons 
obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned 
without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost 
impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free 
Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassms ie 
motion, who had sworn not to spare tJie life of their nearest 
relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees 
of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should 
they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent 
of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought 
admission into the society ; there were Free Judges even 
amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every 
prince had some of their Order in his council. When a 
member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to 
seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of 
him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades 
for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making 
certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without 
asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person 
condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree ; but if 
circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, 
they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not 
been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the 
transactions of the Sagrs or Seers (as they called themselves) 
were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by 
what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At 
length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, 
that the Princes of tlie Empire found it necessary to unite 
their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at 
length successful. 

The following account of this extraordinary association ia 
given by Madame de Stael : — " Des juges mysterieux, in- 
connus I'un a I'autre, toujnurs masques, et se rassemblant 
pendant la nuit, punissoient dans Ie silence, et gravoient 
seulement sur Ie poignard qu'ils enfon^oient dans Ie sein du 
coupable ce mot terrible: Trtbunal Secret. lis pr6- 
venoient Ie condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les 
fenetres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur ! Alora 
l'infortun6 savoit que par-tout, dans I'etranger, dans son 
concitoyen, dans son parent meme, il pouvoit trouver son 
meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, 
toutitoit rempli par la presence invisible de cette conscience 
ann6e qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concjoit comment 

I 1 See the works of Baron Bock and Professor Kramer. 



^62 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



cetto terrible institution poiivoit etre n^cessaire, dans un 
temps oil cliaqiie honinie 6toit fort contre tous, au lieu que 
tous doivent etre forts contro cliacun. 11 falloit que la jus- 
tice surprit le criminel avant qu'il put s'en d^fendre; niais 
cette punition qui planoit dans les airs coninie une ombre 
vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le 
■ein nieme d'un ami, frappoit d'une invincible terreur." — 
VAUcmagiie, vol. ii.] 

Night veiled the mountains ol ' e vine, 
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, 
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, 
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, 
While glen and cavern to their moans 
Gave answer with a thousand tones: 
Then, as the voice of storms appalled 
The peasant of the Odenwald,' 
Shuddering he deemed, that, far on high, 
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by. 
Riding the blast with phantom speed. 
With cry of hound and tramp of steed, 
While his fierce train, as on they flew, 
Their horns in savage chorus blew, 
Till rock, and tower, and convent round, 
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. 

Vain dreams ! far other footsteps traced 
The forest paths, in secret haste ; 
Far other sounds were on the night, 
Though lost amidst the tempest's might, 
That filled the echoing earth and sky 
"With its own awful harmony. 
There stood a lone and ruined fane, 
Far in the Odenwald's domain, 
'Midst Avood and rock, a deep recess 
Of still and shadowy loneliness. 
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown, 
The wild flower waved o'er the altar stone. 
The night wind rocked the tottering pile. 
As it swept along the roofless aisle. 
For the forest boughs and the storm.y sky 
Were all that minster's canopy. 

Many a broken image lay 
In the mossy mantle of decay. 
And partial light the moonbeams darted 
O'er trophies of the long departed ; 
For there the chiefs of other days, 
The mighty, slumbered, with their praise ; 
'Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven 
A tribute to their bier had given. 
Long since a sound but the moaning blast 
Above their voiceless home had passed. 

1 The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoin- 
in( the territories of Darmstadt. 



— So slept the proud, and with them all 

The records of their fame and fall ; 

Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, 

Adorned the dwelling of their rest. 

And emblems of the Holy Land 

Were carved by some forgotten hand. 

But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, 

And the crest through weeds might scarce b8 

traced ; 
And the scattered leaves of the northert 

pine 
Half hid the palm of Palestine. 
So slept the glorious — lowly laid. 
As the peasant in his native shade ; 
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, 
All that high deeds could win from time ! 

What footsteps move, with measured tread, 
Amid those chambers of the dead ? 
What silent, shadowy beings glide 
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside. 
Peopling the wild and solemn scene 
"With forms well suited to its mien ? 
Wanderer, away ! let none intrude 
On their mysterious solitude ! 
Lo ! these are they, that awful band. 
The secret Watchers of the land. 
They that, unknown and uncontrolled. 
Their dark and dread tribunal hold. 
They meet not in the monarch's dome, 
They meet not in the chieftain's home ; 
But where, unbounded o'er their heads. 
All heaven magnificently spreads. 
And from its depths of cloudless blue 
The eternal stars th eir deeds may view ! 
Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod 
By roving foot are seldom trod ; 
Where'er the pathless forest waves. 
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves ; 
Where'er wild legends mark a spot 
By mortals shunned, but unforgot. 
There, circled by the shades of night. 
They judge of crimes that shrink from light , 
And guilt, that deems its secret known 
To the One unslumbering eye alone, 
Yet hears their name with a sudden start. 
As an icy touch had chilled its heart, 
For the shadow of th' avenger's hand 
Rests dark and heavy on the land. 

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom. 
And woke the echoes of the tomb, 
As if the noble hearts beneath 
Sent forth, deep answers to its breath. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



259 



" When the midnight stars are burning, 
And the dead to earth returning ; 
When the spirits of the blest 
Rise upon the good man's rest ; 
When each whisper of the gale 
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale ; 
Li the shadow of the hour 
That o'er the soul hath deepest power, 
Why thus meet vre, but to call 
For judgment on the criminal ? 
"^Tiy, but the doom of guilt to seal, 
And point th' avenger's holy steel ? 
A fearful oath has bound our souls, 
A fearful power our arm controls ! 
There is an ear awake on high 
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die ; 
There is an eye whose beam pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades : 
That ear hath heard our awful vow, 
That searching eye is on us now ! 
Let him whose heart is unprofaned. 
Whose hand no blameless blood hath stained - 
Let him, whose thoughts no record keep 
Of crimes in silence buried deep, 
Here, in the face of Heaven, accuse 
The guilty whom its wrath pursues ! " 

'Twas hushed — that voice of thrilling 
sound ! 
And a dead silence reigned around. 
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form 
Towered like a phantom in the storm ! 
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, 
With its dark folds his face to shroud. 
Through pillared arches on he passed, 
With stately step, and paused at last, 
\\Tiere, on the altar's mouldering stone. 
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone ; 
Then on the fearful stillness broke 
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke : — 

♦' Before that eye whose glance pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades ; 
Heard by that ear awake on high 
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die — 
With all a mortal's awe I stand, 
Yet \\ith pure heart and stainless hand. 
To heaven I lift that hand, and call 
For judgment on the criminal ; 
The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues — 
[t cries for vengeance. I accuse ! " 

" Name thou the guilty ! say for whom 
rhou claim'st th' inevitable doom ! " 



" Albert of Lindheim — to the skies 
The voice of blood against him cries ; 
A brother's blood — his hand is dyed 
With the deep stain of fratricide. 
One hour, one moment, hath revealed 
What years in darkness had concealed, 
But all in vain — the gulf of time 
Refused to close upon his crime ; 
And guilt that slept on flowers shaU. 

know 
The earthquake was but hushed below ! 

— Here, where amidst the noble dead, 
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread ; 
Where, left by him to dark decay, 
Their trophies moulder fast away, 
Around us and beneath us lie 

The relics of his ancestry — 
The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, 
Each in his last, low dwelling-place. 
But one is absent — o'er his grave 
The palmy shades of Syria ■«'ave , 
Far distant from his native Rhine, 
He died, unmoumed, in Palestine ! 
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, 
To perish by a brother's hand ! 
Peace to his soul ! though o'er his bed 
No dirge be poured, no tear be shed, 
Though all he loved his name forget. 
They live who shall avenge him yet 1 " 

" Accuser ! how to thee alone 
Became the fearful secret known ? " 

" There is an hour when vain remorse 
First wakes in her eternal force ; 
When pardon may not be retrieved. 
When conscience will not be deceived. 
He that beheld the victim bleed, 
Beheld, and aided in the deed — 
When earthly fears had lost their power 
Revealed the tale in such an hour. 
Unfolding, with his latest breath, 
All that gave keener pangs to death." 

*' By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, 
Vfiio is forever, and hath been. 
And by th' Atoner's cross adored, 
And by th' avenger's holy sword, 
By truth eternal and divine, 
Accuser ! wilt thou swear to thine ? " 

— " The cross upon my heart is pressed, 
I hold the dagger to my breast ; 

If false the tale whose truth I swear. 
Be mine the murderer's doom to bear • " 



/ 




254 TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 


Then sternly rose the dread reply — 


Voices, that long from earth had fled, 


" His days arc numbered — he must die ! 


And steps and echoes from the dead ; 


There is no shadow of the night 


And many a dream whose forms arise 


So deep as to conceal his flight ; 


Like a darker world's realities ! 


Earth doth not hold so lone a waste 


Call them not vain illusions — born 


But there his footsteps shall be traced ; 


But for the wise and brave to scorn ! 


Devotion hath no shrine so blest 


Heaven, that the penal doom defers, 


That there in safety he may rest. 


Hath yet its thousand ministers. 


Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there 


To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, 


Around him spread her secret snare ! 


In shade, in silence, and alone. 


Li the busy haunts of men, 


Concentrating in one brief hour 


In the still and shadowy glen, 


Ages of retribution's power ! 


When the social board is crowned, 


— K thou wouldst know the lot of thost, 


When the wine cup sparkles round ; 


Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, 


When his couch of sleep is pressed, 


Ah ! seek them not where pleasure's thrcN,^' 


And a dream his spirit's guest ; 


Are listening to the voice of song ; 


When his bosom knows no fear. 


Seek them not where the banquet glows. 


Let the dagger still be near. 


And the red vineyard's nectar flows : 


Till, sudden as the lightning's dart, 


There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek. 


Silent and swift it reach his heart ! 


The ej-e of feverish joy may speak. 


One warning voice, one fearful word. 


And smiles, the ready mask of pride. 


Ere morn beneath his towers be heard. 


The canker worm within may hide. 


Then vainly may the guilty fly. 


Heed not those signs ! they but delude ; 


Unseen, unaided, — he must die ! 


Follow, and mark their solitude ! 


Let those he loves prepare his tomb, 




Let friendship lure him to his doom ! 


The song is hushed, the feast is done. 


Perish his deeds, his name, his race. 


And Lindheim's lord remains alone — 


Without a record or a trace ! 


Alone in silence and unrest. 


Away ! be watchful, swift, and free. 


With the dread secret of his breast ; 


To wreak th' invisible's decree. 


Alone with anguish and with fear. 


'Tis passed — th' avenger claims his prey : 


— There needs not an avenger here ! 


On to the chase of death — away ! " 


Behold him ! — Why that sudden start ? 




Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart ! 


And all was still. The sweeping blast 


Thou hear'st the night wind's hollow sigh, 


Caught not a whisper as it passed ; 


Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry ! 


The shadowy forms were seen no more. 


No sound but these may near thee be ; 


The tombs deserted as before ; 


Sleep ! all things earthly sleep — but thee. 


And the wide forest waved immense 




Li dark and lone magnificence. 


No ! there are murmurs on the air. 


In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed ; 


And a voice is heard that cries — " De- 


The song was hushed, the bard reposed ; 


spair ! " 


Sleep settled on the weary guest, 


And he who trembles fain would deem 


And the castle's lord retired to rest. 


'Twas the whisper of a waking dream. 


To rest ! The captive doomed to die 


Was it but this ? Again, 'tis there : 


May slumber, when his hour is nigh ; 


Again is heard — *' Despair ! Despair ! " 


The seaman, when the billows foam, 


'Tis past — its tones have slowly died 


Rocked on the mast, may dream of home ; 


In echoes on the mountain side ; 


The warrior, on the battle's eve. 


Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. 


May win from care a short reprieve 


He knew their fearful meaning well. 


But earth and heaven alike deny 


And shrinking from the midnight gloom, 


Their peace to guilt's o'crwearied eye ; 


As from the shadow of the tomb. 


And night, that brings to grief a calm, 


Yet shuddering, turned in pale dismay. 


To toil a pause, to pain a balm. 


When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, 


Hath spells terrific in her course. 


And sought, amidst the forest wild. 


Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse — 


Some shade where sunbeam never smiled 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



25^ 



Yes ! hide thee, guilt ! The laughing morn 
Wakes in a heaven of splendor born ! 
The storms that shook the mountain crest 
Have sought their viewless world of rest. 
High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, 
Soars the young eagle in the blaze. 
Exulting, as he wings his way, 
T: re '9l in the fount of day ; 
Ajid brightly past his banks of vine, 
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine ; 
And joyous peals the vintage song 
His wild luxuriant shores along, 
As peasant bands, from rock and dell. 
Their strains of choral transport swell ; 
And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, 
Aspiring to the realm of storms. 
And woods around, and waves below, 
Catch the red Orient's deepening glow. 
That lends each tower, and convent spire, 
A tinge of its ethereal fire. 

Swell high the song of festal hours ! 
Deck ye the shrine with living flowers ! 
Let music o'er the waters breathe ! 
Let beauty twine the bridal wreath ! 
While she, whose blue eye laughs in light. 
Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright. 
The fair-haired maid of Lindheim's hall. 
Wakes to her nuptial festival. 
0, who hath seen, in dreams that soar 
To worlds the soul would fain explore, 
When, for her own blest country pining. 
Its beauty o'er her thought is shining. 
Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye 
Was all one beam of ecstasy ! 
Whose glorious brow no traces wore 
Of guilt, or sorrow known before ! 
Whose smile, undimmed by aught of earth, 
A sunbeam of immortal birth. 
Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, 
Where love and joy are both undying ! 
E'en thiis — a vision of delight, 
A beam to gladden mortal sight, 
A flower whose head no storm had bowed, 
Whose leaves ne'er drooped beneath a cloud, — 
Thus, by the world unstained, untried. 
Seemed that beloved and lovely bride ; 
A being all too soft and fair 
One breath of earthly woe to bear ! 
Yet lives there many a lofty mind, 
In light and fragile form enshrined ; 
And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye 
Hide strength to suffer and to die ! 
Judge not of woman's heart in hours 
Tha' strew her path with summer flowers, 



When joy's full cup is mantling high, 

When flattery's blandishments are nigh ; 

Judge her not then ! within her breast 

Are energies unseen, that rest ! 

They wait their call — and grief alone 

May make the soul's deep secrets known. 

Yes ! let her smile 'midst pleasure's train. 

Leading the reckless and the vain ! 

Firm on the scaff'old she hath stood, 

Besprinkled with the martyr's blood ; 

Her voice the patriot's .heart hath steeled, 

Her spirit glowed on battle field ; 

Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom 

The captive brooding o'er his doom ; 

Her faith the fallen monarch saved, 

Her love the tyrant's fury braved ; 

No scene of danger or despair. 

But she hath won her triumph there ' 

Away ! nor cloud the festal morn 
With thoughts of boding sadness born ! 
Far other, lovelier dreams are thine. 
Fair daughter of a noble line ! 
Young Ella ! from thy tower, whose height 
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, 
Watching, while soft the morning air 
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair. 
Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide 
Bears thy loved warrior to his bride — 
Him, whose high deeds romantic praise 
Hath hallowed with a thousand lays. 

He came — that^youthful chief — he cani«« 
That favored lord of love and fame ? 
His step was hurried — as if one 
Who seeks a voice within to shun ; 
His cheek Avas varying, and expressed 
The conflict of a troubled breast , 
His eye was anxious — doubt, and dread, 
And a stern grief, might there be read : 
Yet all that marked his altered mien 
Seemed struggling to be still unseen. 
— With shrinking heart, with namelesa 

fear. 
Young Ella met the brow austere. 
And the wild look, which seemed to fly 
The timid welcome of her eye. 
Was that a lover's gaze, which chilled 
The soul, its awful sadness thrilled ? 
A lover's brow, so darkly fraught 
With all the heaviest gloom of thought i 
She trembled — ne'er to grief inured, 
By its dread lessons ne'er matured, 
Unused to meet a glance of less 
Than all a parent's tenderness. 



256 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


Shuddering she felt, through every sense, 


Eve gathers round him — on his brow 


The deathlike faintness of suspense. 


Already rests the wintry snow ; 




His form is bent, his features wear 


High o'er the windings of the flood, 


The deepening lines of age and care ; 


On Lindheim's terraced rocks they stood, 


His faded eye hath lost its fire ; 


Whence the free sight afar might stray 


Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire ? 


O'er that imperial river's way, 


Yet tell me all — thy woes impart, ' 


Which, rushing from its Alpine soarce, 


My Ulric ! to a faithful heart. 


Makes one long triumph of its course, 


Which sooner far — 0, doubt not this — 


Roiling in tranquil grandeur by. 


Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss ! ' 


'Midst Nature's noblest pifgeantry. 




But they, o'er that majestic scene. 


" Ella, what wouldst thou ? — 'tis a tale 


With clouded brow and anxious mien. 


Will make that cheek as marble pale ! 


In silence gazed ! — for Ella's heart 


Yet what avails it to conceal 


Feared its own terrors to impart ; 


All thou too soon must know and feel ? 


And he, who vainly strove to hide 


It must, it must be told — prepare, 


His pangs, with all a warrior's pride. 


And nerve that gentle heart to bear. 


Seemed gathering courage to unfold 


But I — 0, was it then for me 


Some fearful tale, that must be told. 


The herald of thy woes to be ? 




Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, 


At length his mien, his voice, obtained 


And wake thee first from dreams of joy ? 


A calm, that seemed by conflicts gained, 


Forgive ! — I would not ruder tone 


As thus he spoke — " Yes ! gaze a while 


Should make the fearful tidings known, 


On the bright scenes that round thee smile ; 


I would not that unpitying eyes 


For, if thy love be firm and true. 


Should coldly watch thine agonies ! 


Soon must thou bid their charms adieu ! 


Better 'twere mine — that task severe. 


A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree 


To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. 


Must bear me far from them or thee ; 




Our path is one of snares and fear ; 


" Hast thou not heard, in legends old. 


I lose thee, if I linger here ! 


Wild tales that turn the lifeblood cold. 


Droop not, beloved ! thy home shall rise 


Of those who meet in cave or glen, 


As fair, beneath far-distant skies ; 


Far from the busy walks of men ; 


As fondly tenderness and truth 


Those who mysterious vigils keep, 


Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. 


When earth is wrapped in shades and sleeps 


But speak ! and, when yon hallowed shrine 


To judge of crimes, like Him on high. 


Hath heard the vows which make thee mine. 


In stillness and in secrecy ? 


Say, Avilt thou fly Avith me, no more 


Th' unknown avengers, whose decree 


To tread thine own loved mountain shore, 


'Tis fruitless to resist or flee ? 


But share and soothe, repining not, 


Whose name hath cast a spell of power 


The bitterness of exile's lot ? " 


O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower ? 




Thy sire — EUa ! hope is fled ! 


" Ulric ! thou know'st how dearly loved 


Think of him, mourn him, as the dead ! 


The scenes where first my childhood roved ; 


Their sentence, theirs, hath sealed his doom 


The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme 


And thou mayst weep as o'er his tomb ! 


AboA-e our own majestic stream, 


Yes, weep ! — relieve thy heart oppressed. 


The halls where first my heart beat high 


Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast ! 


To the proud songs of chivalry. 


Thy cheek is cold — thy tearless eye 


All, all are dear — yet these are ties 


Seems fijced in frozen vacancy. 


Aff'ection well may sacrifice ; 


O, gaze not thus ! — thy sUence break : 


Loved though they be, where'er thou &:'',, 


Speali ! if 'tis but in anguish, speak ! " 


There is the country of my heart ! 


V 


Yet is there one, who, rtft of me, 


She spoke at length, in accents low, 


Were lonely as a blasted tree ; 


Of wild and half-indignant woe ; 


One, Avho still hoped my hand should close 


— " He doomed to perish ! he decreed 


His eyes, in Nature's last repose ; 


Ey their avenging arm to bleed ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



2tl 



He, the renowned in holy fight, 

The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might ! 

Ulric ! what mean'st thou ? — not a thought 

Of that high mind with guilt is fraught ! 

Say, for which glorious trophy won, 

Which deed of martial prowess done. 

Which battle field, in days gone by, 

Gained by his valor, must he die? 

Away ! 'tis not his lofty name 

Their sentence liath consigned to shame — 

'Tis not his life they seek. Recall 

Thy words, oi say he shall not fall ! " 

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief 
Gave pleading softness to her grief : 
" And wilt thou not, by all the ties 
Of our affianced love," she cries, 
" By all my soul hath fixed on thee, 
Of cherished hope for years to be. 
Wilt thou not aid him ? wilt not thou 
Shield his gray head from danger now ? 
Vnd didst thou not, in childhood's morn. 
That saw our young affection born. 
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee. 
Sharing his parent smile with me ? 
Kind, gentle Ulric ! best beloved ! 
Now be thy faith in danger proved ! 
Though snares and terrors round him wait, 
Thou wilt not leave him. to his fate ! 
Turn not away in cold disdain ! 
— Shall thine own Ella plead in vain r 
How art thou changed ! and must I bear 
That frown, that stern, averted air ? 
What mean they ? " 

" Maiden, need st thou ask ? 
These features wear no specious mask. 
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye 
With characters of mystery ? 
This — this is anguish ! Can it be ? 
And plead'st thou for thy sire to mef 
Know, though thy prayers a death pang give, 
He must not meet my sight — and live ! 
Well mayst thou shudder ! Of the band 
Who watch in secret o'er the land. 
Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, 
Th' unknown, th' unslumbcring — I am one ! 
My aim defend him ! What were then 
Each vow that binds the souls of men, 
Sworn on the cross, and deeply sealed 
By rites that may not be revealed ? 
— A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, 
A passing sound, forgot when gone ! 
Nay, shrink not from me — I would fly, 
That he by other hands may die ! 
33 



What ! think'st thou I would live to trace 
Abhorrence in that angel face ? 
Besidv.> thee should the loA^er stand, 
The father's lifeblood on his brand ? 
No ! I have bade my home adieu. 
For other scenes mine eyes must view. 
I;qgk on me, love ! Now all is known, 
O Ella ! must I fly alone ? " 

Lut she wc;s changed. Scarce heaved hei 
breath 
She stood tike one prepared for death, 
And -.vept no more ; then, casting down 
From her fair '^rows the nuptial crown, 
As joy's last vision from her heart, 
Cried, with sad firmness, '• We must part ! 
'Tis past ! These bridal flowers, no hail 
They may not Hook one stormy gale. 
Survive — too dear as '4111 thou art — 
Each hope they imaged ; we must part 1 
One struggle yet — and all is o'er : 
We love — and may we meet no more ! 
O, little know'st thou of the power 
Affection U nds in danger's hour, 
To deem that fate should thus divide 
My footsteps from a father's side ! 
Speed thou to other shores — I go 
To share his wanderings and his woe. 
Where'er his path of thorns may lead, 
Whate'er his doom, by Heaven decreed, 
If there be guardian powers above 
To nerve the heart of filial love, 
If courage may be won by prayer. 
Or strength by duty — I can bear ! 
Farewell ! — though in that sound be t ears 
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, 
Though the soul vibrate to its knoll 
Of joys departed — yet farewell ! " 

Was this the maid who seemed, erewhilej 
Born but to meet life's vernal smiJe ■ 
A being, almost on the wing. 
As an embodied breeze of spring ? 
A child of beauty and of bliss. 
Sent from some purer sphere to this — 
Not, in her exile, to sustain 
The trial of one earthly pain ; 
But, as a sunbeam, on to move. 
Wakening all hearts to joy and love ^ 
That airy form, with footsteps free, 
And radiant glance — could this be she? 
From her fair cheek the rose was gone. 
Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flown ; 
Of all its vivid glow bereft. 
Each playful charm her lip had left. 



X66 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



But what were these ? on that j'oung face, 

Far nobler beauty filled their place ! 

'Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, 

Thoiigh all the bolts of heaven descend ; 

Not the fierce grandeur of despair, 

That half exults its fate to dare ; 

Nor tliat wild energy which leads 

Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds : 

llci mien, by sorrow uiisubdued, 

Was fixed in silent fortitude ; 

Not in its haughty strength elate. 

But calmly, mournfully sedate. 

'Twas strange, yet lovely to behold 

That spirit in so fair a mould. 

As if a rose tree's tender form, 

[Jnbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. 

One look she cast, where firmness strove 
With the deep pangs of parting love ; 
One tear a moment in her eye 
Dimmed the pure light of constancy ; 
And pressing, as to stiU her heart, 
She turned in silence to depart. 
Hut XJlric, as to frenzy wrought, 
Then started from his trance of thought : 

" Stay thee ! 0, stay ! — It must not be — 
All, all were well resigned for thee ! 
Stay ! till my soul each vow disown. 
But those which make me thine alone ! 
If tliere be guilt — there is no shrine 
More holy than that heait of thine : 
There be my crime absolved — I take 
The cup of shame for thy dear sake. 
Of shame ! — O no ! to virtue true, 
Where thou art, there is glory too ! 
Go now ! and to thy sire impart, 
He hath a shield in Ulric's heart, 
And thou a home ! Remain, or flee. 
In life, in death — I follow thee ! " 

" There shall not rest one cloud of shame, 
O Ukic ! on thy lofty name ; 
There shall not one accusing word 
Against thy spotless faith be heard ! 
Thy path is where the brave rush on, 
Thy course must be where palms are won ; 
Where banners wave, and falchions glare. 
Son of the mighty ! be thou there ! 
Think on the glorious names that shine 
Along thy sire's majestic line ; 
0, last of that illustrious race ! 
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace ! 
Well, well I know each grief, each pain. 
Thy spirit nobly could sustain : 



E'en I unshrinking see them near. 
And what hast thou to do with fear? 
But when have -warriors calmly borne 
The cold and bitter smile of scorn ? 
'Tis not for thee ! thy soul hath force 
To cope with all things — but remorse ; 
And this my brightest thought shall be. 
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. 
Go ! break thou not one solemn vow ; 
Closed be the fearful conflict now ; 
Go ! but forget not how my heart 
Still at thy name will proudly start, 
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, 
Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well ! " 
— And thus they parted. Why recall 
The scene of anguish known to all ? 
The burst of tears, the blush of pride. 
That fain those fruitless tears would hide ; 
The lingering look, the last embrace, 
O, what avails it to retrace ? 
They parted — in that bitter word 
A thousand tones of grief are heard, 
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest 
In the fair cells of every breast. 
Who hath not known, who shall not know, 
That keen yet most familiar woe ? 
Where'er affection's home is found, 
It meets her on the holy ground ; 
The cloud of every summer hour, 
The canker worm of every flower. 
Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, 
That mortal agony of love ? 

The autumn moon slept bright and still 
On fading wood and purple hill ; 
The vintager had hushed his lay. 
The fisher shunned the blaze of day, 
And silence, o'er each green recess. 
Brooded in misty sultriness. 
But soon a low and measured sound 
Broke on the deep repose around ; 
From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar 
Bade the stream ripple to the shore. 
Sweet was that sound of waves which parted 
The fond, the true, the noble-hearted ; 
And smoothly seemed the bark to glide, 
And brightly flowed the reckless tide, 
Though, mingling with its current, fell 
The last warm tears of love's farewell. 



Sweet is the gloom of forest shades. 
Their pillared walks and dim arcades, 
With all the thousand flowers that blow, 
A waste of loveliness, below. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



269 



To him whose soul the world would fly, 

For nature's lonely majesty : 

To bard, when rapt in mighty themes, 

To lover, lost in fairy dreams, 

To hermit, whose prophetic thought 

By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, 

And, in the visions of his rest, 

Held bright communion with the blest : 

'Tis sweet, but solemn ! There alike 

Silence and sound with awe can strike. 

The deep ^olian murmur made 

By sighing breeze and rustling shade. 

And caverned fountain gushing nigh. 

And wild bee's plaintive lullaby : 

Or the dead stillness of the bowers, 

When dark the summer tempest lowers ; 

When silent nature seems to wait 

The gathering thunder's voice of fate ; 

When the aspen scarcely waves in air, 

And the clouds collect for the lightning's glare ■ 

Each, each alike is awful there. 

And thrills the soul with feelings high, 

As some majestic harmony. 

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced 
Each green retreat in breathless haste — 
Young Ella — lingered not to hear 
The woodnotes, lost on mourner's ear. 
The shivering leaf, the breeze's play. 
The fountain's gush, the wild bird's lay — 
These charm not now ; her sire she sought. 
With trembling frame, with anxious thought, 
And, starting if a forest deer 
But moved the rustlinsj branches near, 
First felt that innocence may fear. 

She reached p, lone and shadowy dell. 
Where the free mmbeam never fell ; 
'Twas twilight there at summer noon, 
Deep nip;ht bp*ipath the harvest moon. 
And scarce ra'<Tht one bright star be seen 
Gleaming the tangled boughs between ; 
For many a giant rock around 
Dark in terrific grandc zr frowned. 
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high 
Shut out ea( h glimpse of the bless6d sky. 
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave. 
Ne'er to heaven's beam one sparkle gave. 
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew. 
Caught not from day one glowing hue. 

'Twas said, some fearful deed untold 
Had stained that scene in days of old ; 
Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown 
A. shade j at deeper than its own ; 



And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom. 
Perchance above some victim's tomb, 
O'ergrown with ivy and with moss. 
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, 
Which, haply, silent record bore 
Of guilt and penitence of yore. 

Who by that holy sign was kneeling, 
With brow unuttcred pangs revealing, 
Hands clasped convulsively in prayer, 
And lifted eyes and streaming hair. 
And cheek, all pale as marble mould. 
Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold ? 
Was it some image of despair 
Still fixed that stamp of woe to bear ? 
— O, ne'er could Art her forms have wrought 
To speak such agonies of thought ! 
Those deathlike features gave to view 
A mortal's pangs too deep and true ! 
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye. 
As Ella's hurried step drew nigh ; 
He turned, with aspect darkly wild. 
Trembling he stood — before his child ! 
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung. 
And to her father's bosom clung. 

"Away! what seek'st thou here?" a« 
cried ; 
" Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride > 
Hence, leave me — leave me to await. 
In solitude, the storm of Fate ; 
Thou know'st not what my doom may Le, 
Ere evening comes in peace to thee." 

" My father ! shall the joyous throng 
Swell high for me the bridal song ? 
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread. 
The festal garland bind my head, 
And thou in grief, in peril, roam. 
And make the wilderness thy home ? 
No ! I am here with thee to share 
All suffering mortal strength may bear ; 
And, O, whate'er thy foes decree. 
In life, in death, in chains, or free — 
Well, well I feel, in thee secure ; 
Thy heart and hand alike are pure ! " 

Then was there meaning in his look, 
Which deep that trusting spirit shook ; 
So wildly did each glance express 
The strife of shame and bitterness, — 
As thus he spoke : " Fond dreams, O, hence l 
Is this the mien of Innocence ? 
This furrowed brow, this restless eye — 
Head thou this fearful tale, and fly ! 



160 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Is it enough ? or must I seek 

For loords, the tale of guilt to speak ? 

Then be it so — I will not doom 

Thy youth to wither in its bloom ; 

I vj^}^ not see thy tender frame 

Bowed to the earth with fear and shame. 

No ! though I teach thee to abhor 

The sire so fondly loved before ; 

Though the dread effort rend my breast, 

Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest ! 

0, bitter penance ! thou wilt turn 

Away in horror and in scorn ; 

Thy looks, that still through all the past 

Affection's gentlest beams have cast, 

As lightning on my heart will fall. 

And I must mark and bear it all ! 

Yet though of life's best ties bereaved, 

Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived ! 

" 1 linger — let me speed the tale 
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. 
Why should I falter thus to tell 
What Heaven so long hath known too well ? 
Yes ! though from mortal sight concealed, 
There hath a brother's blood appealed ! 
He died — 'twas not where banners wave. 
And war steeds trample on the brave ; 
He died — it was in Holy Land — . 
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand ; 
He sleeps not with his sires at rest. 
With trophic d shield and knightly crest ; 
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, 

— But I can tell thee where he lies ! 
It was a wild and savage spot, 

But once beheld — and ne'er forgot ! 
I see it now — that haunted scene 
My spirit's dwelling still hath been; 
And he is there — I see him laid 
Beneath that palm tree's lonely shade. 
The fountain wave that sparkles nigh 
Bears witness with its crimson dye ! 
I see th' accusing glance he raised, 
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed ; 

— Ne'er will that parting look forgive ! 
I still behold it — and I live ! 

I live ! from hope, from mercy driven, 
A mark for all the shafts of heaven ! 

" Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won 
My birthright ; and my child, my son. 
Heir to high name, high fortune born. 
Was doomed to penury and scorn, 
An alien 'midst his father's halls, 
An exile from his native walls. 



Could I bear this ? The rankling thought. 
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought ; 
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile. 
Lurked in my infant's rosy smile, 
And when his accents lisped my name. 
They woke my inmost heart to flame ! 
I struggled — are there evil powers 
That claim their own ascendant hours ? 

— O, what should thine unspotted soul 
Or know or fear of their control ? 
Why on the fearful conflict dwell ? 
Vainly I struggled, and I fell — 

Cast down from every hope of bliss — 
Too well thou know'st to what abyss ! 

" 'Twas done ! — that moment hurried by 
To darken all eternity. 
Years rolled away, long evil years. 
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears ; 
Nor aught but vain remorse I gained 
By the deep guilt my soul which stained. 
For, long a captive in the lands 
Where Arabs tread their burning sands. 
The haunted midnight of the mind 
Was round me while in chains I pined. 
By all forgotten, save by one 
Dread presence — which I could not shun. 

— How oft, when o'er the silent waste 
Nor path nor landmark might be traced, 
When slumbering by the watchfire's ray. 
The Wanderers of the Desert lay. 

And stars, as o'er an ocean shone, 

Vigil I kept — but not alone ! 

That form, that image from the dead. 

Still walked the wild with soundless tread I 

I've seen it in the fiery blast, 

I've seen it where the sand storms passed ; 

Beside the Desert's fount it stood. 

Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; 

And e'en when viewless, by the fear 

Curdling my veins, I knew 'twas near ! 

— Was near ! — I feel th' unearthly thrill ; 
Its power is on my spirit still ! 

A mystic influence, undefined, 
The spell, the shadow of my mind ! 

" Wilt thou yet linger ? Time speeds on , 
One last farewell, and then begone ! 
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, 
And let me read thine aspect now ! 
No ! stay thee yet, and learn the meed 
Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. 
Slow came the day that broke my chain. 
But I at length was free again ; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



26k 



Ajid freedom brings a burst of joy 
E'en guilt itself can scarce destroy. 
I thought upon my own fair towers, 
My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers, 
And in a father's visions, pressed 
Thee and thy brother to my breast. 
— 'Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet 
Recall the moment when we met ? 
Thy step to greet me lightly sjDrung, 
Thy arms around me fondly clung ; 
Scarce aught than infant seraph less 
Seemed thy pure childhood's loveliness. 
But he was gone — that son for whom 
I rushed on guilt's eternal doom ; 
He for whose sake alone were given 
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven — 
He met me not. A ruthless band, 
Whose name with terror filled the land, 
fierce outlaws of the wood and wild. 
Had reft the father of his child. 
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed 
Full on that cherished scion burst. 

Unknown his fate No parent nigh, 

My boy ! my first born ! didst thou die ? 
Or did they spare thee for a life 
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife ? 
Liv'st thou, unfriended, unallied, 
A wanderer lost, without a guide? 
O, to thy fate's mysterious gloom 
Blest were the darkness of the tomb ! 

" EUa ! 'tis done — my guilty heart 
Before thee all unveiled — depart ! 
Few pangs 'twill cost thee now to fly 
From one so stained, so lost as I ; 
Yet peace to thine untainted breast, 
E'en though it hate me ! — be thou blest I 
Farewell ! thou shalt not linger here — 
E'en now th' avenger may be near : 
Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare, 
The dagger, may be ambushed there ; 
One hour — and haply all is o'er, 
And we must meet on earth no more. 
No, nor beyond ! — to those pure skies 
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise ; 
Heaven's will forever parts our lot. 
Yet, O, my child ! abhor me not ! 
Speak once ! to soothe this broken heart, 
Speak to me once ! and then depart ! " 

But still — as if each pulse were dead, 
Mute — as the power of speech were fled, 
pale — as if life1)lood ceased to warm 
rht! marble beauty of her form ; 



On the dark rock she leaned her head. 

That seemed as there 'twere riveted. 

And dropped the hands till then which pressed 

Her burning brow or throbbing breast. 

There beamed no teardrop in her eye, 

And from her lip there breathed no sigh, 

And on her brow no trace there dwelt 

That told she suffered or she felt. 

All that once glowed, or smiled, or beamed. 

Now fixed, and quenched, and frozen seemed 

And long her sire, in wild dismay. 

Deemed her pure spirit passed away. 

But life returned. O'er that cold frame 
One deep convulsive shudder came ; 
And a faint light her eye relumed, 
And sad resolve her mien assumed. 
But there was horror in the gaze, 
Which yet to his she dared not raise : 
And her sad accents, wild and low. 
As rising from a depth of woe. 
At first with hurried trembliug broke. 
But gathered firmness as she spoke. 
— "I leave thee not — whate'er betide. 
My footsteps shall not quit thy side ; 
Pangs keen as death my soul may thrill. 
But yet thou art my father still ! 
And, O, if stained by guilty deed. 
For some kind spirit, tenfold need, 
To speak of Heaven's absolving love, 
And waft desponding thought above. 
Is there not power in mercy's wave 
The blood stain from thy soul to lave ? 
Is there not balm to heal despair, 
In tears, in penitence, in prayer ? 
My father ! kneel at His pure shrine 
Who died to expiate guilt like thine, 
Weep — and my tears with thine shall blenci 
Pray — while my prayers with thine ascend, 
And, as our mingling sorrows rise. 
Heaven will relent, though earth despise ! " 

" My child, ray child ! these bursting tears 
The first mine eyes have shed for years, 
Though deepest conflicts they express, 
Yet flow not all in bitterness ! 
O, thou hast bid a withered heart 
From desolation's slumber start \ 
Thy voice of pity and of love 
Seems o'er its icy depths to move 
E'en as a breeze of health, which bring* 
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. 
And there is mercy yet ! I feel 
Its influence o'er my spirit steej ; 



202 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


How welcome were each pang below, 


By torrent wave and mountain brow, 


If guilt might be atoned by woe ! 


Is wandering as an outcast now. 


Think' St thou I yet may be forgiven ? 


To share with Lindheim's fallen chief 


Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven ? 


His shame, his terror, and his grief. 


0, if it yet avail to plead, 




If judgment be not yet decreed, 


Hast thou not marked the ruin.'s flower, 


Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, 


That Mooms in solitary grace. 


Till pardon shall be sealed on high ! 


And, faithful to its mouldering tower, 


Yet, yet I shrink ! — Will Mercy shed 


Waves in the banner's place ? 


Her dews upon this fallen head ? 


From those gray haunts renown hath pass^ 


— Kneel, Ella, kneel ! till full and free 


Time wins his heritage at last ; 


Descend forgiveness, won by thee ! " 


The day of glory hath gone by, 




With all its pomp and minstrelsy : 


They knelt — before the Cross, that sign 


Yet still the flower of golden hues 


Of love eternal and divine ; 


There loves its fragrance to diff"use. 


That symbol, which so long hath stood 


To fallen and forsaken things 


A rock of strength on time's dark flood. 


With constancy unaltered clings. 


Clasped by despairing hands, and laved 


And, smiling o'er the wreck of state. 


By the warm tears of nations saved. 


With beauty clothes the desolate. 


In one deep prayer their spirits blent. 


— E'en such was she, the fair-haired mala 


The guilty and the innocent ; 


In all her light of youth arrayed, 


Youth, pure as if from heaven its bii-th, 


Forsaking every joy below 


Age, soiled with every stain of earth. 


To soothe a guilty parent's woe, 


Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, 


And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, 


One sacrifice of agony. 


To the dark ruin made by crime. 


— 0, blest, though bitter be their source — 


0, ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyes 


Though dark the fountain of remorse. 


Smile on a purer sacrifice ; 


Blessed are the tears which pour from 


Ne'er did young love, at duty's shrine. 


thence. 


More nobly brighter hopes resign ! 


Th' atoning stream of penitence ! 


O'er her own pangs she brooded not. 


And let not pity check the tide 


Nor sank beneath her bitter lot ; 


By which the heart is purified ; 


No ! that pure spirit's lofty worth 


Let not vain comfort turn its course, 


Still rose more buoyantly from earth, 


Or timid love repress its force ! 


And drew from an eternal source 


Go ! bind the flood, whose waves expand, 


Its gentle, yet triumphant force ; 


To bear luxuriance o'er the land ; 


Housed by afiliction's chastening might 


Forbid the life-restoring rains 


To energies more calmly bright. 


To fall on Afric's burning plains ; 


Like the wild harp of airy sigh. 


Close up the fount that gushed to cheer 


Woke by the storm to harmony ! 


The pilgrim o'er the waste who trod ; 


He that in mountain holds hath sought 


But check thou not one holy tear 


A refuge for unconquered thought, 


Which Penitence devotes to God ! 


A chartered home, where Freedom's child 




Might rear her altars in the wild, 


Through scenes so lone the wild deer ne'er 


And fix her quenchless torch on high. 


Vas roused by huntsman's bugle there — 


A beacon for Eternity ; 


do rude that scarce might human eye 


Or they, whose martyr spirits wage 


Sustain their dread sublimity — 


Proud war with Persecution's rage. 


So awful that the timid swain, 


And to the deserts bear the faith 


Nurtured amidst their dark domain. 


That bids them smile on chains and death • 


Had peopled with unearthly forms 


Well may they draw, from all around. 


Their mists, their forests, and their storms — 


Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, 


She, whose blue eye of laughing light 


From the deep power of earth and sky, 


Once made each festal scene more bright ; 


Wild nature's might of majesty. 


Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest. 


Strong energies, immortal fires. 


Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, 


High hopes, magnificent desires I 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



2C% 



But dark, terrific, and austere 
To him doth nature's mien aj^pearj 
Who 'midst her wilds ^^•ould seek repose 
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes ! 
For him the wind hath music dread, 
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead ; 
The forest's whisjDcr breathes a tone 
Appalling, as from Avorlds unknown ; 
The mystic gloom of wood and cave 
Is filled with shadows of the grave ; 
In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart 
A blaze that seems to search his heart ; 
The pure, eternal stars of night 
Upbraid him with their silent light ; 
And the dread spirit, which pervades 
And hallows earth's most lonely shades, 
In every scone, in every hour, 
Surrounds him with chastising power — 
With nameless fear his soul to thrill, 
tieard, felt, acknowledged, present still ! 

'Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, 
And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way ; 
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, 
Foretold the tempest gathering round ; 
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread 
With a tinge of wild and stormy red. 
That seemed, through the twilight forest bowers, 
Like the glare of a city's blazing towers. 
But they, who far from cities fled, 
Ind shrunk from the print of human tread, 
Had reached a desert scene unknown. 
So strangely wild, so deeply lone. 
That a nameless feeling, unconfessed 
And undefined, their souls oppressed. 
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurled. 
Lay like the ruins of a world. 
Left by an earthquake's final throes 
In deep and desolate repose — 
Things of eterniiy, whose forms 
Bore record of ten thousand storms ! 
While, rearing its colossal crest. 
In sullen grandeur o'er the rest, 
One like a pillar, vast and rude, 
Stood monarch of the solitude. 
Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand 
Th' enduring monument was planned ; 
Or Odin's sons, in days gone by. 
Had shaped its rough immensity, 
To rear, 'midst mountain, rock, and wood, 
A temple meet for rites of blood. 
But they were gone, who might have told 
That secret of the times of old ; 
A.nd there in silent scorn it frowned 
O'er all its vast coevals round. 



Darkly those giant masses lowered. 
Countless and motionless they towered ; 
No wild flower o'er their summits hung, 
No fountain from their caverns sprung ; 
Yet ever on the wanderers' ear 
Murmured a sound of waters near, 
With music deep of lulling falls, 
And louder gush, at intervals. 
Unknown its source — nor spring nor stream 
Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam, 
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, 
Arose that mystic voice of waves." 
Yet bosomed 'midst that savage scene, 
One chosen spot of gentler mien 
Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye 
Of shelter from the tempest nigh. 
Glad sight ! the ivied cross it bore, 
The sculptured saint that crowned its door 
Less welcome now Avere monarch's dome, 
Than that low cell, some hermit's home. 
Thither the outcasts bent their way. 
By the last lingering gleam of day ; 
When from a caverned rock, which cast 
Deep shadows o'er them as they passed, 
A form, a warrior form of might, 
A:-) Irom earth's bosom, sprang to sight 
His port was lofty — yet the heart 
Shrunk from him with recoiling start , 
His mien was youthful — yet his face 
Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace ; 
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought 
Its traces on his brow had wrought : 



1 The original of the scene here described is presented 
by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse : — • 
" Des masses 6normes de rochers, entassees I'une sur I'autre 
depuis le somraet de la montagne jusqu'i son pied, viennent 
y presenter un aspect superbe qii'aucune description ne sau- 
rait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des geans, qui en se livrant 
un combat du haul des montagnes, lancerent les uns sur les 
autres ces 6normes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beau- 
coup de peine, jusqu'au somniet du Feldberg, en suivant un 
sentier qui passe 4 cot6 de cette chaine de rochers. On 
entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venird'un 
ruisseau au dessous des rochers ; mais on a beau descendre, 
en se glissant 4 travers les ouvertures qui s'y trouvent, on n« 
decouvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensaule, 
se trouve un pen plus haut qu'i la moitie de la montagne , 
c'est un bloc de granit taille, i'une longueui de 30 pieds et 
d'un diam6tre de 4 pieds. II y a plus de probability de croire 
que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une 
colonne pour I'eriger en I'honneur de leur dien Odin, que 
de pretendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Ro- 
mains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leurcapitale- 
On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d'une forme presqm 
carr6e, qu'on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du g6ant,} qui, i 
en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, 6tait destine i servir da 
pi6destal 4 la colonnade susdite." — Manuel pour les Voym- 
geura sur le Rhin, 



264 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES- 


Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, 


And know, to calm thy suffering heart, 


But calm and cold severity, 


My spirit is resigned to part, 


A spiri* haughtily austere, 


Trusting in Him who reads and knows 


Stranger to pity as to fear. 


This guilty breast, with all its woes. 


It seemed as pride had thrown a veil 


Rise ! I would bless thee once again, 


O'er that dark brow and visage pale. 


Be still, be firm — for all is vain ! " 


Leaving the searcher nought to guess, 




All was so fixed and passionless. 


And she was still. She heard him not — 




Her i^rayers were hushed, her pangs foigot ; 


He spoke — and they who heard the tone 


All thought, all memory passed away, 


Felt, decjDly felt, all hope was flown. 


Silent and motionless she lay. 


" I've sought thee far in forest bowers, 


In a brief death, a blest suspense 


I've sought thee long in peopled towers. 


AUke of agony and sense. 


I've borne th' dagger of th' Unknown 


She saw not when the dagger gleamed 


Through scenes explored by me alone ; 


In the last red light from the west tha! 


My search is closed — nor toils nor fears 


streamed ; 


Repel the servant of the Seers ; 


She marked not when the lifeblood's flo* 


We meet — 'tis vain to strive or fly : 


Came rushing to the mortal blow ; 


Albert of Lindheim, thou must die ! " 


While, unresisting, sank her siro, 




Yet gathered firmness to expire, 


Then with clasped hands the fair-haired 


Mingling a warrior's courage high 


maid 


With a penitent's humility. 


Sank at his feet, and wildly prayed : — 


And o'er him there th' Avenger stood, 


" Stay, stay thee ! sheathe that lifted steel ! 


And watched the victim's ebbing blood, 


0, thou art human, and canst feel ! 


Still calm, as if his faithful hand 


Hear me ! if e'er 'twas thine to prove 


Had but obeyed some just command. 


The blessing of a parent's love ; 


Some power whose stern, yet righteous will 


By thine own father's hoary hair. 


He deemed it virtue to fulfil, 


By her who gave thee being, spare ! 


And triumphed, when the palm was won, 


Did they not, o'er thy infant years, 


For duty's task austerely done. 


Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears ! 




Young warrior ! thou wilt heed my prayers. 


But a feeling dread and undefined, 


As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs ! " 


A mystic presage of the mind. 




With strange and STjdden impulse ran 


But cold th' Avenger's look remained. 


Chill through the heart of the dying man ; 


His brow its rigid calm maintained : 


And his thoughts found voice, and his bosoB 


" Maiden ! 'tis vain — my bosom ne'er 


breath. 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


And it seemed as fear suspended death, 


The nurture of my infant years 


And nature from her terrors drew 


Froze in my soul the source of tears ; 


Fresh energy and vigor new. 


'Tis not for me to pause or melt, 




Or feel as happier hearts have felt. 


" Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne'er 


Away ! the hour of fate goes by : 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


Thy prayers are fruitless — he must die ! " 


Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years, 




Froze in thy soul the source of tears : 


" Rise, Ella ! rise ! " with steadfast brow 


The time will come, when thou, with me, 


The father spoke — unshrinking now, 


The judgment throne of God wilt see — 


As if from Heaven a martyr's strength 


O, by thy hopes of mer.y then. 


Had settled on his soul at length : 


By His blest love who died for men. 


" Kneel thou no more, my noble chUd, 


By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow. 


Thou by no taint of guilt defiled ; 


Avenger ! I adjure thee now ! 


Kneel not to man ! — for mortal prayer, 


To him w fio bleeds beneath thy steel, 


0, when did mortal vengeance spare ? 


Thy lineage and thy name reveal. 


Since hope of earthly aid is flown. 


And haste thee ! for his closing ear 


Lift thy pure hands to Heaven alone. 


Hath little more on earth to hear — 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



261 



Haste ! lor the spirit, almost flown, 
Is lingering for thy words alone." 

Then first a shade, resembling fear, 
Passed o'er th' Avenger's mien austere ; 
A nan.eless awe his features crossed, 
Soon in their haughty coldness lost. 

< What :youldst thou ? Ask the rock and wild, 
And bid them tell thee of their child ! 
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, 
Whose tempests were his lullabies ! 
His chambers were the cave and wood. 
His fosterers men of wrath and blood ; 
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, 
By wrongs to desperation driven ! 
Who, in their pupil, now could trace 
The features of a nobler race ? 
Yet such was mine ! — if one who cast 
A look of anguish o'er the past. 
Bore faithful record on the day 
When penitent in death he lay. 
But still deep shades my prospects veil j 
He died — and told but half the tale. 
With him it sleeps — I only know 
Enough for stern and silent woe. 
For vain ambition's deep regret. 
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet. 
For dreams of pride, that vainly tell 
How high a lot had suited well 
The heir of some illustrious line. 
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine ! " 

Then swift through Albert's bosom passed 
One pang, the keenest and the last. 
Ere with his spirit fled the fears. 
The sorrows, and the pangs of years ; 
And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, 
Falteri'ng he murmured, " Heaven is just ! 
For thee that deed of guilt was done. 
By thee avenged, my son ! my son ! " 
— The day was closed — the moonbeam shed 
Light on the living and the dead. 
And as through rolUng clouds it broke. 
Young Ella from her trance awoke — 
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know 
E'en more than all an orphan's woe. 
O, ne'er did moonbeam's light serene 
With beauty clothe a sadder scene ! 
There, cold in death, the father slept — 
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept ! 
Yes ! she might weep — but one stood nigh. 
With horror in his tearless eye, 
That vfe which ne'er again shall close 
m thh deep quiet of repose ; 
34 



No more on earth beholding aught 

Save one dread vision, stamped on thought. 

But, lost in grief, the Orphan ^laid 

His deeper woe had scarce surveyed. 

Till his wild voice revealed a tale 

Which seemed to bid the heavens turn pale ! 

He called her, " Sister ! " and the word 

In anguish breathed, in terror heard. 

Revealed enough : all else were weak — 

That sound a thousand pangs eould speak. 

He knelt beside that breathless clay. 

Which, fixed in utter stillness, lay — 

Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace. 

Each line of that unconscious face ; 

Knelt, till his eye could bear no more 

Those marble features to explore ; 

Then, starting, turning, as to shun . 

The image thus by Memory won, 

A wild farewell to her he bade. 

Who by the dead in silence prayed ; 

And, frenzied by his bitter doom. 

Fled thence — to find all earth a tomb 

Days passed away — and Rhine's fair shore 
In the light of sunmier smiled once more ; 
The vines were purpling on the hill. 
And the cornfields waved in the sunshine stilL 
There came a bark up the noble stream, 
With pennons that shed a golden gleam. 
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song. 
Gliding triumphantly along ; 
For warrior forms were ghttering there, 
Whose plumes waved light in the whispering 

air; 
And as the tones of oar and wave 
Their measured cadence mingling gave, 
'Twas thus th' exulting chorus rose. 
While many an echo swelled the close : — 

" From the fields where dead and dying 
On their battle bier are lying, 
Where the blood unstanched is gushing, 
Where the steed unchecked is rushing. 
Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, 
Ere the spirit yet be parted , 
Where each breath of heaven is swaying 
Knightly plumes and banners playing, 
And the clarion's music swelling 
Calls the vulture from his dwelling ; 
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, 
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine s 
To his own fair woods, enclosing 
Vales in sunny peace reposing, 
Where his native stream is laving 
Banks, with golden harvests waving, 



266 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



^nd the summer light is sleeping 

On the grape, through tendrils peeping ; 

To the halls where harps are ringing, 

Bards the praise of warriors singing, 

Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, 

Joyous voices minglmg sweetly ; 

Where the cheek of mirth is glowing. 

And the Avine cup brightly flowing. 

He comes, with trophies worthy of his Une, 

The son of heroes, ULric of the Rhine ! " 

He came — he sought his Ella's bowers, 
He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers ; 
But voice and footstep thence had fled, 
As from the dwellings of the dead. 
And the sounds of human joy and woe 
Gave place to the moan of the wave below. 
The banner still the rampart crowned, 
But the tall rank grass waved thick around ; 
Still hung the arms of a race gone by 
In the blazoned walls of their ancestry. 
But they caught no more, at fall of night. 
The wavering flash of the torch's light. 
And they sent their echoes forth no more 
To the Minnesinger's ' tuneful lore. 
For the hands that touched the harp were gone. 
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ; 
And the soul of the chord lay mute and stiU, 
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, 
And woke from its depths a dreamlike moan, 
For life, and power, and beauty gone. 

The warrior turned from that silent scene, 
Where a voice of woe had welcome been ; 
And his heart was heavy with boding thought, 
As the forest paths alone he sought. 
He reached a convent's fane, that stood 
Deep bosomed in luxuriant wood ; 
Still, solemn, fair — it seemed a spot 
Where earthly care might be all forgot, 
And sounds and dreams of heaven alone 
To musing spirit might be known. 

And sweet e'en tiisa were the sounds that 

rose 
On the holy and profound repose. 
O, they came o'er the warrior's breast 
Like a glorious anthem of the blest ; 
And fear and soitow died away 
Before the full majestic lay. 
He entered the secluded fane, 
Which sent forth that inspiring strain ; 

1 Minnesingers, (bards or love,) the appellation of the Ger- 
Bian minstrels in the Middle Ages. 



He gazed — the halloAved pile's array 
Was that of some high festal day ; 
Wreathes of all hues its pillars bound. 
Flowers of all scents were strewed around ; 
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, 
Blest on the altar to smile and die ; 
And a fragrant cloud from the censer's breath 
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath ; 
And still the peal of choral song 
Swelled the resounding isles along ; 
Wakening, in its triumphant flow, 
Deep echoes from the graves below. 

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, 
Doth summer's rose that scene adorn ? 
Why breathes th' incense to the sky ? 
Why swells th' exulting harmony ? 
— And seest thou not yon form, so light 
It seems half floating on the sight. 
As if the whisper of a gale, 
That did but wave its snowy veil. 
Might bear it from the earth afar, 
A lovely but receding star ? 
Know that devotion's shrine e'en now 
Receives that youthful vestal's vow — 
For this, high hymns, sweet odors rise, 
A jubilee of sacrifice ! 
Mark yet a moment ! from her brow 
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, 
Ere yet a darker mantle hide 
The charms to Heaven thus sanctified : 
Stay thee ! and catch their parting gleam, 
That ne'er shaU fade from memory's dream. 
A moment ! O, to Ulric's soul. 
Poised between hope and fear's control. 
What slow, unmeasured hours went by, 
Ere yet suspense grew certainty ! 
It came at length. Once more that face 
Revealed to man its mournful grace; 
A sunbeam on its features fell. 
As if to bear the world's farewell ; 
And doubt was o'er. His heart grew chill ; 
'Twas she — though changed — 'twas Ella stiB 
Though now her once rejoicing mien 
Was deeply, mournfully serene ; 
Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded. 
And the young cheek beneath had faded, 
Well, well he knew the form which cast 
Light on his soul through all the past ! 
'Twas with him on the battle plain, 
'Twas with him on the stormy main : 
'Twas in his visions, w nen the shield 
Pillowed his head on tented field ; 
'Twas a bright beam that led him on 
Where'er a triumph might be won — 



IflB CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 26^ 


In danger as in glory nigh, 


Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath vieived, 


An angel guide to victory ! 


Can tell thee what is solitude ! 




It is to traverse lifeless plains, 


She caught his pale bewildertsd gaze 


Where everlasting stillness reigns. 


Of grief half lost in fixed amaze. 


And billowy sands and dazzling sky 


Was it some vain illusion, wrought 


Seem boundless as infinity ! 


By frenzy of impassioned thought ? 


It is to sink, with speechless dread, 


Some phantom, such as grief hath power 


In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, 


To sunanoi: in her wandering hour ? 


Severed from earthly being's trace, 


No ! it was he ! the lost, the mourned — 


Alone amidst eternal space ! 


Too deeply loved, too late returned ! 




— A fevered blush, a sudden start, 


'Tis noon — and fearfully pri*fouud, 


Spoke the last weakness of her heart ; 


Silence is on the desert rour d ; 


'Twas vanquished soon — the hectic red 


Alone she reigns, above, beneath, 


A moment flushed her cheek, and fled. 


With all the attributes of death ! 


Once more serene — her s'.eadfast eye 


No bird the blazing heaven may dare, 


Looked up as to Eternity ; 


No insect bide the scorching air ; 


Then gazed on Ulric with an air 


The ostrich, though of sunborn race, 


That said. The home of Love is there ! 


Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place ; 




The lion slumbers in his lair. 


Yes ! there alone it smiled for him 


The serpent shuns the noontide glare. 


Whose eyp before that look grew dim. 


But slowly wind the patient train 


Not long 'twas his e'en thus to view 


Of camels o'er the blasted plain, 


The beauty of its calm adieu ; 


Where they and man may brave alone 


Soon o'er those features, brightly pale, 


The terrors of the burning zone. 


Was cast th' impenetrable veil ; 


— Faint not, pilgrims ! though on high. 


And, if one human sigh were given 


As a volcano, flame the sky ; 


By the pure bosom vowed to Heaven, 


Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 


'Twas lost, as many a murmured sound 


The dark-red seas of sand below ; 


Of grief, "not loud, but deep," is drowned, 


Though not a shadow, save your own, 


In hymns of joy, which proudly rise 


Across the dread expanse is thrown. 


To tell the calm untroubled skies 


Mark ! where your feverish lips to lave, 


That earth hath banished care and woe, 


Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave ! 


And man holds festivals below ! 


Urge your tired camels on, and take 




Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 




Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, 


":_^ 


And fan your brows with lighter wing. 


THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS 


Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide 




Reflects the date tree on its side — 


Call it not loneliness to dwell 


Speed on ! pure draughts, and genial air, 


In woodland shade or hermit dell, 


And verdant shade, await you there. 


Or the deep forest to explore. 


0, gUmpse of heaven ! to him unknown 


Or wander Alpine regions o'er ; 


That hath not trod the burning zone ! 


For nature there all joyous reigns. 


Forward they press — they gaze dismayed — 


And fills with life her wild domains : — 


The waters of the desert fade ! 


A bird's light Aving may break the air, 


Melting to vapors that elude 


A wave, a leaf, may murmur there ; 


The eye, the lip, they vainly wooed 


A bee the mountain flowers may seek. 




A ch>imois bound from peak to peak ; 


What meteor comes ? A purple haze 


An eagle, rushing to the sky. 


Hath half obscured the noontide rays ; * 


Wake the deep echoes with his cry ; 


Onward it moves in swift career, 


And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, 


A blush upon the atmosphere. 


Some voice though not of man is near. 




But he, whose weary step hath traced 


1 The mirage, or vapor assuming the appearance d 
water. 


Mysterious Afric's awful waste — 


> See the description of the simoom in Brume's Traveli. 



r" 



268 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Haste, haste ! avert th.' impending doom, 
Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom ! 
Bow down your faces — till the blast 
On its i-ed wing of flame hath passed, 
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 
The viewless Angel of the Grave. 

It came — 'tis vanished — but hath left 
Vue wanderers e'en of hope bereft ; 
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, 
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. 
Faint with despondence, worn vdth. toil, 
They sink upon the burning soil, 
Hesigned, amidst those realms of gloom, 
To find their death bed and their doom.' 

But onward stni ! — yon distant spot 
Of verdure can deceive you not ; 
Yon palms, which tremulously seemed 
Reflected as the waters gleamed. 
Along th' horizon's verge displayed, 
Still rear their slender colonnade — 
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 
The Caravan's exhausted train. 
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss, 
The desert's emerald oasis ! 
A rainbow on the torrent's wave, 
A gem imbosomcd in the grave, 
A sunbeam on a stormy day 
Its beautjf's image might convey ! 
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, 
While silence round her vigil keeps. 

Rest, wearj"- pilgrims ! calmly laid 
To slumber in th' acacia shade : 
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise 
Their aromatic breath diffuse ; 
Where softer light the sunbeams pour 
Through the tall palm and sycamore ; 
And the rich date luxuriant spreads 
Its pendent clusters o'er your heads. 
Nature once more, to seal your eyes, 
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; 
Again each heart the music hails 
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales : 
And O, to Afric's child how dear 
The voice of fountains gushing near ! 
Sweet be your slumbers ! and your dreams 
Of waving groves and rippling streams ! 
Far be the serpent's venomed coil 
From the brief respite won by toil ; 



I The extreme languor and despondence produced by the 
iimoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been de- 
cnbed b} many travellers. 



Far be the awful shades of those 
Who deep beneath the sands repose — 
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath 
Bore swift and stern the call of death 
Sleep ! nor may scorching blast invaJo 
The freshness of th' acacia shade, 
But gales of heaven your spirits bless. 
With Life's best balm — Forgetfulness ! 
Till night from many an urn diffuse 
The treasures of her world of dews. 

The day hath closed — the moon on high 
Walks in her cloudless majesty. 
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 
Serene magnificence have given — 
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 
Shines forth eternally the same. 
Blest be their beams, whose holy light 
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, 
And lead, as with a track divine. 
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine ! 
— Rise ! bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! 
Again your lonely march pursue. 
While airs of night are freshly blowing. 
And heavens with softer beauty glowing. 

'Tis silence all : the solemn scene 
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien ; 
For giant rocks, at distance piled, 
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 
Darkly they rise — what ej-c hath viewed 
The caverns of their solitude 5 
Away ! within those awful cells 
The savage lord of Afric dwells ! 
Heard ye his voice? — the lion's roar 
Swells as when billows break on shore. 
Well may the camel shake with fear. 
And the steed pant — his foe is near. 
Haste ! light the torch, bid watchfires 

throw 
Far o'er the waste a ruddy glow ; 
Keep vigil — guard the bright array 
Of flames that scare him from his prey ; 
Within their magic circle press, 
O wanderers of the wilderness ! 
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze 
Tell the wild tales of elder days, — 
Arabia's wondrous lore, that dwells 
On warrior deeds and wizard spells ; 
Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these. 
Rising to vanish with the breeze ; 
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed 
Their light where mortal may not tread ; 
And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 
Th' eternal billow heaves and izUa, 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 



269 



— With charms like these, of mystic power, 
Watchers ! beguile the midnight hour. 

Slowly that hour hath rolled away, 
And star by star withdraws its ray. 
■Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich Orient hails his reign. 
He comes, but veiled — with sanguine glare 
Tinging the mists that load the air ; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim. 
'Tis death's red banner streams on high — 
Fly to the rocks for shelter ! — fly ! 
Lo ! darkening o'er the fiery skies. 
The pillars of the desert rise ! 
On, in terrific grandeur, wheeling, 
A giant host, the heavens concealing, 
Thej' move, like mighty genii forms, 
Towering immense 'midst clouds and storms. 
Who shall escape ! — with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on their course ; 
They join, they rush resistless on — 
The landmarks of the plain are gone ; 
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, 
Of those who trod the burning waste ! 
All whelmed, all hushed ! — none left to bear 
Sad record how they perished there ! 
No stone their tale of death shall tell — 
The desert guards its mysteries well ; 
And o'er th' unfathomed, sandy deep, 
Where low their nameless relics sleep, 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread. 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF 
CARTHAGE. 

[" Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in 
Africa, had landed at Carthage, vvhe)i an officer, sent by the 
Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him : — 
' Marius, I come from the Pr^tor Sextilius, to tell you that 
he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he 
will support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public 
enemy.' Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with 
grief and indignation. lie uttered not a word for some 
time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At 
length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to 
the govemnr. ' Go and tell him,' said the unfortunate man, 
with a sigh, 'that thou hast seen tlie exiled Marius sitting 
on the ruins of Carthage.' " — Plutarch.] 

TwAS noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high 
With fierce resplendence filled th' unclouded sky ; 
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of lifrht, 
Silent and lonely, as at dead of nigr' t, 



The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fan es 
Had strewed their precious marble o'er the 

plains : 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown 
The lizard basked upon the altar stone ; 
Whelmed by the ruins of their own abodes, 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ; 
While near — dread offspring of the burning 

day ! — 
Coiled 'midst forsaken halls the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, 
To shelter in that awful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene : — 
Shadowed, not veiled, by locks of wintry snow, 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrowed brow ; 
Time had not quenched the terrors of his eye, 
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendenc)' ; 
While the deep meaning of his features told 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit rolled, 
Nor dimmed the fire that might not be controlled, 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Shattered, but yet unconquered, by the storm. 
— But slow his step — and where, not yet o'er 

thrown. 
Still towered a pillar 'midst the waste alone, 
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept — and darkly, on his brief repose, 
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim, unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, 
The kingly shadow seemed to lift his chain. 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn. 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

" And sleep' st thou, Roman ? " cried his voico 

austere ; 
" Shall son of Latium find a refuge here'i 
Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate . 
Go ! with her children's flower, the frf^, tbjj 

brave. 
People the silent chambers of the ^ii&,vo ! 
So shall the course uf ages yet to be 
More swiftly waft the day avenging me ! 

" Yes, from the aAvful gulf of years to come, 
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom ; 
I see the trophies of her pride decaj^ 
And her long line of triutnphs pass away, 
Lost in the depths of time — while sinks the stai 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 



270 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Lo ! from the frozen forests of the North 
The sons of shiughter pour in myriads forth ! 
Who shall awake the mighty ? — will thy woe, 
City of thrones ! disturb the realms below ? 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadowy legions to arise ! 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls ! 
— Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the 

free. 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! born on high, 
A creature of the empyreal — thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth — whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved ; 
Sink from thy heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er, 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more ! 
Closed is thy regal course — thy crest is torn, 
And thy plume banished from the realms of 

morn. 
The shaft hath reached thee ! — rest with chiefs 

and kings, 
Who conquered in the shadow of thy wings ; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey. 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 
But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread. 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head. 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine : 
'Midst fallen palaces she sits alone. 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone, 
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleep'st thou, Roman ? Son of Victory, 
rise ! 
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood ! 
My children's manes call — awake ! prepare 
The feast they claim! — exult in Rome's de- 
spair ! 
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, 
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies ; 
Le* carnage revel e'en her shrines among, 
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young ! 
Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, 
^nd wreak the curse of Carthage on her head ! " 

The vision flies — a mortal step is near, 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear ; 
He starts, he wakes to woe — before him stands 
Th' unwelcon' <) messenger of harsh commands, 



Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
— Silent the wanderer sat — but on his cheek 
The burning glow far more than words migh 

speak ; 
And from the kindling of his eye theie broke 
Language where all th' indignant soul awoke. 
Till his deep thought found voice : then, calmly 

stern. 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, "RetLJtn. 
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hati 

been ! " 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave, 

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, 
The wild wind slumbers in its cave. 

And heaven is cloudless — earth is still ! 
The pile that crowns yon savage height 
With battlements of Gothic might. 

Rises in softer pomp arrayed, 

Its massy towers half lost in shade. 
Half touched with mellowing light ! 
The rays of night, the tints of time, 

Soft mingling on its dark-gray stone. 
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime, 

A placid smile have thrown. 
And far beyond, where wild and high. 
Bounding the pale-blue summer sky, 
A mountain vista meets the eye. 
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume 
A pencilled shade, a softer gloom : 
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, 
Its torrents glitter through the night. 
While every cave and deep recess 
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. 
Scarce moving on the glassy deep 
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep ; 

But darting from its side, 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide ! 
No sound is on the summer seas, 

But the low dashing of the oar. 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky shora 
That boat has reached the silent bay — 
The dashing oar has ceased to play ; 
The breeze has murmured and has died 
In forest shades, on ocean's tide. 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



27" 



No step, no tone, no breath of sound 

Disturbs the loneliness profound ; 

And tnidnight spreads o'er earth and main 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane 

To brc^ik on nature's sleep ! 
It is the hour for thought to soar 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes ; 
For rapt devotion to adore — 

For passion to repose ; 
And virtue to forget her tears, 
In visions of sublimer spheres ! 
For O, those transient gleams of heaven, 
To calmer, purer spirits given, 
Children of hallowed peace, are known 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, 
To blow beneath the midnight moon. 
The gairish world they will not bless. 
But only live in loneliness ! 

i tiark ! did some note of plaintive swell 
Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there ? 
For wild and distant it arose, 
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose, 
When in lone wood, or mossy cave, 
He dreams beside some fountain wave, 
And fairy worlds delight the eyes 
Wearied with life's realities. 

Was it illusion ? Yet again 
Rises and falls th' enchanted strain, 

Mellow, and sweet, and faint — 
As if some spirit's touch had given 
The soul of sound to harp of heaven 

To soothe a dying saint ! 
Is it the mermaid's distant shell, 

Warbling beneath the moonlit wave ? 

— Such witching tones might lure full well 
The seaman to his grave ! 

Sure fi'om no mortal touch ye rise. 
Wild, soit, aerial melodies ! 

— Is it the song of woodland fay 
From sparry grot, or haunted bower i 

Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 

Draws near yon ivied tower ! 
Now nearer still, the listening ear 
May catch sweet harp notep, faint yet "'./"at ; 
And acsjents loW; as if in fear. 

Thus murmur, half 3uppres5ed . - - 
•* Awake ! the moon is bright on high, 
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh. 

The world '.s hushed to rest ! " 



Then sinks the voice — the strain is o'er, 
Its last low cadence dies along the shore. 

Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, 
Swift from her tower she glides along ; 
No echo to her tread awakes. 
Her fairy step no slumber breaks ; 
And, in that hour of silence deep, 
While all around the dews of sleep 
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, 
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear. 
Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 
Half wavering now, the varying cheek 
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, 
The lip now flushed, now pale as death. 
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath ! 
O, in that moment, o'er her soul 
What struggling passions claim control ' 
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, 
By turns have won th' ascendency ; 
And as, all tremulously bright. 
Streams o'er her face the beam of night, 
What thousand mixed emotions play 
O'er that fair face, and melt away, 
Like forms whose quick succession gleams 
O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams ; 
Like the swift-glancing lights that rise 
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, 

And traverse ocean o'er ; 
So that in full, impassioned eye 
The changeful meanings rise and die, 

.Tust seen — and then no more ! 
But 0, too short that pause. Again 
ThriUs to her heart that witching strain : — 
" Awake ! the midnight moon is bright ; 
Awake ! the moments wing their flight ; 

Haste ! or they speed in vain ! " 

O call of Love ! thy potent spell 
O'er that weak heart prevails too well; 
The "still small voice" is heard no more 
That pleaded duty's cause before, 
A.nd fear is hushed, and doubt is gone. 
And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 
Her cheek, whose color came and fled, 
Resumes its warmest, brightest red. 
Her step its quick elastic tread. 

Her eye its beaming smile ! 
Through lonely court and silent hall 
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall ; 
And still that low, harmonious call 

Melts on her ear the while ! 
Though love's qiuck ear alone could teU 
The Avords its accents faintly swell : — 
" Awake ! while yet the lingering night 
And stars and seas befriend our flight : 



272 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


<J, haste, -while all is well ! " 


Alike in tournament or fight. 


The halls, the courts, the gates are past, 


That ardent spirit found delight ! 


She gains the moonlit beach at last. 


Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar, 


"Who Avaits to guide her trembUng feet ? 


Bright o'er his soul a vision came, 


"Who flies the fugitive to greet ? 


Rising like some benignant star 


He, to her youthful heart endeared 


On stormy seas or plains of war. 


By all it e'er had hojDed and feared, 


To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame^ 


l~wined A\dth each Avish, -with every thought 


The heart that throbbed to Bertha's name ! 


Each daydream fancy e'er had wrought. 


And 'midst the wildest rage of fight, 


Whose tints portray with flattering skill 


And in the deepest calm of night. 


What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! 


To her his thoughts would wing their flight 


— Alas ! that aught so fair should fly 


With fond devotion warm ; 


Thy blighting wand. Reality ! 


Oft would those glowing thoughts portray 




Some home from tumults far away. 


A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 


Graced with that angel form ! 


A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore — 


And now his spirit fondly deems 


Disguise that vainly strove to hide 


Fulfilled its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 


Bearing and glance of martial pride : 




For he in many a battle scene, 


Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow. 


On many a rampart breach had been ; 


In minstrel garb attends the chief ? 


Had sternly smiled at danger nigh. 


The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 


Had seen the valiant bleed and die, 


Reveals a shade of grief. 


And proudly reared on hostile tower, 


Sorrow and time have touched his face 


'Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, 


With mournful yet majestic grace. 


Britannia's banner high ! 


Soft as the melancholy smile 


And though some ancient feud had taught 


Of sunset on some ruined pile ! 


His Bertha's sire to loathe his name, 


— It is the bard, whose song had power 


More noble warrior never fought 


To lure the maiden from her tower — 


For glory's prize or England's fame. 


The bard, whose wild inspiring lays. 


And well his dark, commanding eye, 


E'en in gay childhood's earliest daj's. 


And form and step of stately grace, 


First woke, in Osbert's kindling breast, 


Accorded with achievements high, 


The flame that will not be repressed, 


Soul of emprise and chivalry, 


The pulse that throbs for praise ! 


Bright name, and generous race ! 


Those laj's had banished from his eye 


His cheek, imbrowned by many a sun, 


The bright soft tears of infancy. 


Tells a proud tale of glory won, 


Had soothed the boy to calm repose. 


Of vigil, march, and combat rude. 


Had hushed his bosom's earliest woes ; 


Valor, and toil, and fortitude ! 


And when the light of thought awoke. 


E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw 


When first 3'oung reason's dayspring broke 


Warm o'er that cheek their vivid hue. 


More powerful still, they bade arise 


His gallant soul, his stripling form, 


His spirit's burning energies ! 


Had braved the battle's rudest storm ; 


Then the bright dream of glory warmed, 


■When England's conquering archers stood, 


Then the loud-pealing war song charmed, 


And dyed thy plain, Poitiers ! with blood, 


The legends of each martial line. 


When shivered axe, and cloven shield, 


The battle tales of Palestine : 


-iLnd shattered helmet, strewed the field. 


And oft, since then, his deeds had proved 


And France around her king in vain 


Themes of the lofty lays he loved ! 


Had marshalled valor's noblest train — 


NoAv, at triumphant love's command. 


In that dread strife his lightning eye 


Since Osbert leaves his native land, 


Had flashed with transport keen and high. 


Forsaking glory's high career 


And 'midst the battle's wildest tide, 


For her than glory far more dear ; 


Throbbed his young heart with hope and pride. 


Since hope's gay dream and meteor ray 




To distant regions point his way. 


Alike that fearless heart could brave 


That there Aff'ection's hands may dress 


Death on the war field or the wave ; 


A fairy bower for happiness ; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



278 



That fond devoted bard, though now 
Time's wintry garland wreathes his brow, 
Though quenched the sunbeam of his eye, 
And lied his spirit's buoyancy, 
And strength and enterprise are past, 
Still follows constant to the last ! 
Though his sole wish was but to die 
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by. 
And all that hallows and endears 
The memory of departed years — 
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 
To those loved scenes his pensive mind ; 
Ah ! what can tear the links apart 
That bind his chieftain to his heart ? 
What smile but his with joy can light 
The ej'e obscured by age's night ? 
Last of a loved and honored line. 
Last tie to earth in life's decline, 
Till death its lingering spark shall dim^ 
That faithful eye must gaze on him ! 

Silent and swift, with footstep light, 
Haste on those fugitives of night. 
They reach the boat — the rapid oar 
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore : 
The bark is gained ! A gallant few. 
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew ; 
The pennant, in the moonlight beam. 

With soft suffusion glows : 
From the white sail a silvery gleam 

Falls on the wave's repose ; 
Long shadows undulating play, 
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay ; 
But still so hushed the summer air, 
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair, 
Lest morn's first beam behold them there. 
— Wake, viewless wanderer ! breeze of night ! 
From river Avave, or mountain height, 
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, 
By haunted spring in forest bowers ; 
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, 
In amber grot where mermaids dwell. 
And caverned gems their iustrt throw 
O'er the red sea flowers' vivi'i glow ! 
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, 
In solitary splendor blaze. 
And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear. 
Swell through the deep's unfathomed sphere ? 
What grove of that mysterious world 
Holds thy light wing in slumber furled ? 
Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove : 
Awake ! to guide the bark of love ! 
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 
Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, 
35 



E'en now — but lo ! the rustling sail 
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 
The bark glides on — their fears are o'er ; 
Recedes the bold romantic stiore. 

Its features mingling fast. 
Gaze, Bertha ! gaze : thy lingering eye 
May still each lovely scene descry 

Of years forever past ! 
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade 
With bounding step thy childhood played, 
'Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns. 
Free as their native birds and fawns ; 
Listening the sylvan sounds that iioa*^ 
On each low breeze, 'midst dells remote — 
The ringdove's deep melodious moan, 
The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 
The wild bee's hum, the aspen's sigh. 
The wood stream's plaintive harmony. 
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour. 
There thy own mountains darkly tower I 
']\Iidst their gray rocks no gien so rude 
But thou hast loved its solitude ! 
No path so wild but thou hast known. 
And traced its rugged course alone ! 
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair 
Was twined of glowing heath flowers there. 
There in the dayspring of thy years, 
Undimmed by passions or by tears. 
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 
Wandered o'er ocean, earth, or sky. 
While the wild breeze, that round thej 

blew, 
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. 
Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 
Their clear and cloudless azure spread. 
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew 
Its freshness from the mountain dew, 
Glowed thy young heart with feelings high. 
A heaven of hallowed ecstasy ! 
Such days were thine ! ere love had drawn 
A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 
As the clear dews in morning's beam. 
With soft reflected coloring stream., 
Catch every tint of Eastern gem, 
To form the rose's diadem. 
But vanish when the noontide hour 
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower - ■ 
Thus in thy soul each calm delight, 
Like morn's first dewdrops, pure and bright 
Fled swift from passion's blighting nre 
Or 'Ingered only to expire ! 
Spring on tliy native hills again 

Shall bid neglected wild flowers rise, 
And call forth, in each grassy glen. 

Her brightest emerald dyes ! 



274 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



There shall the lonely mountain rose, 

Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose ; 

'Midst rocky dells, each weU -known stream 

Shall sparkle in the summer beam ; 

The birch, o'er precipice and cave. 

Its feathery foliage still shall wave, 

The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil 

Its coral clusters to the gale, 

And autumn shed a warmer bloom 

O'er the rich heath and glowing broom, 

But thy light footstep there no more 

Each path, each dingle shall explore. 

In vain may smile each green recess, 

— AVho now shall pierce its loneliness ? 

The stream through shadowy glens may strav, 

— ^^^lo now shall trace its glistening way ? 
In solitude, in silence deep, 

Snrined 'midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, 
No lute's wild swell again shall rise 
To wake her mystic melodies. 
All soft may blow the mountain air, 

— It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 
The mountain rose may bloom and die, 

- It will not meet thy smiling eye ! 
But like those scenes of vanished days, 

Shall Dthers ne'er delight ; 
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze. 

Yet seem not half so bright ! 
O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue 
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high ; 
Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view 

That home of infancy ! 
Heed not the night dew's chilling power. 
Heed not the sea wind's coldest hour. 
But pause and linger on the deck. 
Till of those towers no trace, no speck. 

Is gleaming o'er the main ; 
For when the mist of morn shall rise. 
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies. 
That home, once vanished from thine eyes, 

Shall bless them ne'er again ! 

There the dark tales and songs of yore 

First with strange transport thrilled thy sou^ 
(i'en while their fearful mj'stic lore 

From thy warm cheek the lifebloom stole. 
There, while thy father's raptured ear 
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, 
And i9 his eye the trembling tear 

Revealed his spirit's trance. 
How oft, those echoing halls along. 
Thy thrilling voice has swelled the song — 
Tradition Mild of other days. 
Or troubadour's heroic lays, 

Or legrend of romance ! 



O, many an hour has there been thine, 

That memory's pencil oft shall dress 
In softer shades, and tints that shine 

In mellowed loveliness ! 
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, 

Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret 
The sunshine of thine early years. 

Scarce deemed so radiant — till it set ! 
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, 
The bliss, till vanished hardly known ! 

On rock and turret, wood and hill, 
The fading moonbeams linger still ; 
Still, Bertha ! gaze on yon gray tower, 
At evening's last and sweetest hour. 
While varying still, the western skies 
Flushed the clear seas with rainbow dyes, 
Whose warm suffusions glowed and passed 
Each richer, lovelier, than the last. 
How oft, while gazing on the deep, 
That seemed a heaven of peace to sleen, 
As if its wave, so still, so fair. 
More frowning mien might never wear, 
The twilight calm of mental rest 
Would steal in silence o'er thy breast. 
And wake that dear and balmy sigh 
That softly breathes the spirit's harmony ! 

— Ah ! ne'er again shall hours to thee nt 

given 
Of joy on earth — so near allied to heaven 1 

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye ? 
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh ? 
Is there a grief his voice, his smile. 
His words, are fruitless to beguile ? 

— O, bitter to the youthful heart. 
That scarce a pang, a care has known. 

The hour when first from scenes we part, 

Where life's bright spring has flown ! 
Forsaking, o'er the world to roam, 
That little shrine of peace — our home ! 
E'en if delighted fancy throw 
O'er that cold world her brightest glow. 
Painting its untried paths with flowers, 
That will not live in earthly bowers, 
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear 
One breath of life's ungenial air ;) 
E'en if such dreams cf hope arise 
As heaven alone can realize. 
Cold were the breast that would not heave 
One sigh, the home of youth to leave ; 
Stern were the heart that would not swell 
To breathe life's saddest word — farewell ! 
Though earth has many a deeper woe. 
Though tears more bitter far must flow. 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



275 



That hour, whate'er our future lot, 
That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot ! 

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart. 
The thought, that bade the teardrop start ; 

And Osbert by her side 
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell 
Nature's fond struggle told too well ; 
And days of future bliss portrayed, 
\nd love's own eloquence essayed. 

To soothe his plighted bride ! 
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells. 

In that sweet land to which they fly ; 
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells, 

Of blooming Italy. 
For he had roved a pilgrim there. 
And gazed on many a spot so fair 
It seemed like some enchanted grove, 
AVhere only peace, and joy, and love. 
Those exiles of the world, might rove, 

And breathe its heavenly air ; 
A.nd, all unmixed with ruder tone, 
Their " wood notes wild " be heard alone ! 
Far from the frown of stern control, 
That vainly would subdue the soul. 
There shall their long- affianced hands 
Be joined in consecrated bands. 
And in some rich, romantic vale. 

Circled with heights of Alpine snow, 
"Where citron woods enrich the gale. 
And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 

And flowering myrtles blow ; 
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high 
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry ; 
On some bright streamlet's emerald isle. 
Where cedars wave in graceful pride, 
Bosomed in groves, their home shall rise, 
A sheltered bower of paradise ! 
Thus would the lover soothe to rest * 

With tales of hope her anxious breast ; 
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore 
Her soul's bright visions to restore, 
And bid gay phantoms of delight 
Float in soft coloring o'er her sight. 
— O Youth ! sweet May morn, fled so soon, 
Far brighter than life's loveliest noon. 
Flow oft thy spirit's buoyant power 
Will triumph e'en in sorrow's hour, 

Prevailing o'er regret ! 
A.S rears its head th' elastic flower. 
Though the dark tempest's recent shower 

Hang on its petals yet ! 

Ah ! not so soon can hope's gay smile 
The aged bard to joy beguile ; 



Those silent years that steal away 

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray. 

Win from the mind a nobler prize, 

E'en all its buoyant energies ! 

For him the April days are past. 

When grief was but a fleeting clou^ ; 
No transient shade will sorrow cast. 

When age the spirit's might has bowed ! 
And, as he sees the land grow dim, 
That native land now lost to him. 
Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands. 
And long in speechless grief he stands : 

So desolately calm his air. 
He seems an image wrought to bear 
The stamp of deep, though hushed despair. 
Motion and life no sign bespeaks, 
Save that the night breeze, o'er his cheeks, 

Just waves his silvery hair ! 
Nought else could teach the eye to know 
He was no sculptured form of woe ! 
Long gazing o'er the darkening flood. 
Pale in that silent grief he stood, 
Till the cold moon was waning fast. 

And many a lovely star had died. 
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast 

Far o'er the slumbering tide ; 
And, robed in one dark solemn hue, 
Arose the distant shore to view. 
Then, starting from his trance of woe. 
Tears, long suppressed, in freedom flow. 
While thus his wild and plaintive strain 
Blends with the murmur of the main 

THE bard's farewell. 

*' Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 
Are trembling on the shadowy deep, 
The land, now fading from thy gaze. 

These eyes in vain shall weep ; 
And wander o'er the lonely sea, 
And fix their tearful glance on thee — 
On thee ! whose light so softly gleams 
Through the green oaKS that fringe my nativi 
streams. 

" But 'midst those ancient groves no more 

Shall I thy quivering lustre hail ; 

Its plaintive strain my harp ii.ust pour 

To swell a foreign gale. 
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke 
When its full tones their stillness broke. 
Deserted now, shall hear alone [moan 

The brook's wild voice, the wind's myflterioui 

♦' And O, ye fair, forsaken halls. 
Left by your lord to slow decay, 



276 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Soon shall the trophies on your walls 

Be mouldering fast away ! 
There shall no choral songs resound, 
There shall no festal board be crowned ; 
But ivy wreatlie the silent gate, 
&.nd all be hushed, and cold, and desolate. 

■' No banner from the stately 'tower 

Shall spread its blazoned folds on high ; 
There the wild brier and summer flower, 

Unmarked, shall wave and die. 

Home of the mighty ! thou art lone, 

The noonday of thy pride is gone. 

And, 'midst thy solitude profound, 

A step shall e<;ho like iinearthly sound ! 

»» From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 
Shall, fill the hall with ruddy light, 
Nor welcome with convivial rays 

Some pilgrim of the night. 
But there shall grass luxuriant spread, 
As o'er the dwellings of the dead ; 
And the deep swell of every blast 
Beem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past. 

' And I — my joy of life is fled. 

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow ; 
The raven locks that graced my head 

"Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose' 
I deemed life's lingering ray should close. 
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade, 
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood 
played. 

•' Vain dream ! that tomb in distant earth 
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot ; 
And thou, sweet land that gav'st me birth ! 

A grave must yield me not. 
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter eve. 
When cold the hand, and closed the lays. 
And mute the voice he loved to praise. 
O'er the hushed harp one tear may shed, 

Atud one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed ! " 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 

TwAS night in Babylon : yet many a beam. 
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, 
Bhone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 
Whose azure knows no cloud : each whispered sigh 



Of the soft night breeze through her terrace 

bowers 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers : 
And the glad city's voice went up from ail hoi 

towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall. 
Where 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, 
High at the statelj' midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand 
Had showered around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East ; all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ; all sweets of many a land 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore. 
— But mortal pride looked on, and still de- 
manded more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell th' exulting strain ! 
The lord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane. 
Thrice holy vessels ! — pure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him 
Who deigned within the oracle to reign. 
Revealed yet shadowed ; making noonday dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the cher- 
ubim. 

They came, and louder pealed the voice of song, 
And pride flashed brighter from the kindling eye ; 
And He who sleeps not heard th' elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die. 
And bid the censers of the temple hold 
(Merings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadowed forth, the senses to appall, 
Yon fearful vision ? Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause ? Along the illumined wall, 
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all, 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand, 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall. 
In silence tracing, as a mystic w^and, 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far 
distant land ! 

There are pale cheeks around the regal boai'd. 
And quivering limbs, and Avhispers deep and low 
And fitful starts ! — the wine, in triumph poured, 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flew, 



BEIiSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 



277 



the waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, 
Trembles before a shadow ! Say not so ! 
- The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight, 
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, th' avenging 
Infinite ! 

" But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers, 
The men of prescience ! Haply to their eyes, 
Which track the future through the rolling 

spheres, 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies." 
Thej' come — the readers of the midnight skies. 
They that gave voice to visions — but in vain ! 
Still wrapped in clouds the awful secret lies, 
It hath no language 'midst the starry train, 
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven's mj'steries 

to explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — one of those 
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres. 
And sat and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose 
Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind ; 
Telling of inM'ard mysteries — joys and woes 
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined ; 
Depths of a being sealed and severed from man- 
kind. 

Yes ! — what was earth to him, whose spirit 

passe(i 
Time's utmost bounds ? on whose unshrinking 

sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Theii- full resplendence ? Majesty and might 
Were in his dreams ; for him the veil of light 
Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and 

throne. 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright, 
Was raised ! — to him, in fearful splendor shown. 
Ancient of Days ! e'en Thou mad'st thy dread 

presence known. 

He spoke — the shadows of the things to come 
Passed o'er his soul : — " O King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom — 
The One, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 
Hath weighed, and found thee wanting. 'Tis 

decreed 
ITie conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide, 
The stranger to thj' throne of power succeed ! 
Thy days arc full : they come, — the Persian and 

the Mede ! " 



There fell a moment's thrilling silence round — 
A breathless pause ! — the hush of hearts thaf 

beat, 
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet ? 
— 'Twas but some echo in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 
That speeds the stars their joyous course along— 
Away ! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again ! Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle field ! 
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying. 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ; and, blent with 

these, ' 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom ia 

sealed 
In their full mirth ! — all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas ! 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry ; 
And, lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling. 
Death — bursting on the halls of revelry ! 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose leaf die. 
The sword hath raged through joy's devot<»d 

train ; 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and 

fane ; 
Empire is lost and won — Belshazzar with the 

slain.* 



[Belshazzar's Feast had previously been published in the 
CullectUm of Poems from Lioing Authors, edited for a benev- 
olent purpose by Mrs. Joanna Baillie. — Memoir, p. 68. 

" Miss Baillie's volume contained several poems by Mrs. 
Heraans ; some jeuz d' esprit by the late Miss Catherine FaH 
shawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose societj 
Scott greatly delighted ; and, inter alii, Mr. William Ilowi 
son's early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally 
published, under Scott's auspices, in the Edinburgh Registel 
for 1810. — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. v. p. 987. 

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter's own " Mac 
duff's Cross," and Southey's lively and eccentric nursery 
rhymes on the " Cataract of Lodoar," first made their ap. 
pearance in the collection referred to.] 



I As originally written, the following additional dtanzaf 
(afterwards omitted) concluded this poem : — 

Fallen is the golden city ! In the dust, 
Spoiled of her crown, dismantled of her state. 
She that hnth made the strength of towers her tm»t 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate I 
She that beheld the nations at her gate. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

y . " Thou etrivc8t noWy, 
VSlicn hearts of sterner stiitt'perlmps had sunk, 
And o'er thy full, if it be so decreed, 
Good men will mourn, and hriivc men will shed tears. 

Fame I look not for; 
But to sustain, in Ilcaven's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With grueoful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honor of u man. 
Thus stationed as I am, I will do all 
That man may do." 

Miss Baillie's " Constantine Falieologus.' 



The fires grew pale on Home's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
— Shout for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising city of the billow side, 
The City of the Cross ! — great ocean's bride, 
Crowned with her birth she sprung ! Long ages 

past. 
And still she looked in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, 
Poured by the burning East all joyously and fast. 



Long ages past ! — they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broidered her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frowned in their strength ; yet there were signs 
which told 



Thronging in homage, shall be called no more 
Lady of kingdoms I Who shall mourn her fate 7 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er — 
What widowed land shall now her widowhood deplore ? 

Sit thou in silence I Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters I — thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disowned 
The mighty Name it blazons 1 — veil thy head, 
Daughter of Babylon 1 The sword is red 
From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
" I am, and none beside 1 " Th' Eternal spoke ; 
Thy glory was a spoil, ihine idol gods were broke I 

But go thou forth, Israel I — wake 1 rejoice I 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day I 
Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice. 
The mirth of timbrels! — loose the chain, and say 
God hath redeemed his people I — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise I 
Awake I — put on thy beautiful array, 
O long-forsaken Zion I — to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies I 

And lift thy head 1 — Behold thy sons returning, 
Kedcemed from exile, ransomed from the chain. 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain. 
Because her children were not, dwells again 
Girt with the lovely 1 Through thy streets once more. 
City of God I shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore! 



The days were full. The pure, high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmured if a rose leaf's fold 
Disturbed her dreams ; and called her slaves to 

keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach 

her o'er the deep. 



But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury wooed ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter and the wine cup flows 
And darker hues have stained the marble, 

strewed 
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose ; 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 

of foes. 



A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the night storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds 

bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crowned Eurotas ; when, of old, 
Dark Asia sent her battle myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave, which would not be con- 
trolled. 
But past the Persian's chain in boundless free- 
dom rolled. 



And it is thus again ! Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam wreaths, from the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep. 
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are 

passed 
Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors 

sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude se- 
pulchral heap. 



War from the West I — the snows on Thrajian 

hiUs 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'ei 

the lands 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



27» 



WTiich Ho;inu8 girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East ! — 'midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be. 
While Ismaol's bow is bent in warrior hands 
Against the Golden City of the Sea.' 

O for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylae ! 



Hear yet again, ye mighty ! — "Where are they 

Wnojwith their green OljTnpic garlands crowned, 

Leaped up in proudly beautiful array, 

As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 

Of Persia's clarion ? Far and joyous round, 

From the pine forests, and the mountain snows, 

And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 

Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 

rose ! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's 

repose ? 



They slumber with their swords ! — the olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 
In vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian 

vale. 
Yet must thou wake, though all unarmed and 

pale. 
Devoted City ! Lo ! the Moslem's spear, 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine car ! 
— Awake ! and summon those who yet, per- 
chance, may hear ! 



Be hushed, thou faint and feeble voice of weep- 

ing ! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, 
And call on chiefs, whpse noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry. 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales ! The sons of each brave line 
From their baronial halls shall hoar your cry. 
And seize the arms which flashed round Salem's 

shrine. 
And wield for you the swords once waved for 

Palestine ! 



1 The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of 
Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and 
nations, who were not enrolled amongst tlio regular troops. 
The sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople : 
but his army must have been principally collected in the 
Asiatic provinces, which he had previously visited. 



All still, all voiceless ! — and the billow's roar 
Alone replies ! Alike their soul is gone 
Who shared the funeral feast on Qiita's shore, 
And theirs that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swelled the crusader's hymn ! Then gird tho« on 
Thine armor. Eastern Queen ! and meet the hout 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work i« 

done 
With a strong heart : so may thy helmet towei 
Unshivered through the storm, for generous hop» 

is power ! 



But linger not — array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming 

bright. 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment hath its sound of feai, 
Which the deep grave alone is chartered not to 

hear ! 



Away ! bring wine, bring odors to the shade * 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must 

die! — 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower or pillared 

hall; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky. 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call, 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 

fall. 



The night — the glorious Oriental night — 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars 1 The red artillery's light. 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendor driven. 
To the stdl firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and now the air is riven 
With thunderbursts, and now dull smoke cloud* 

lower, 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallowed 

hour. 

s " Hue vina, et luigucnta, et nirnium breves 
Flores amoenie ferre jubo rosie." — IIurauk. 



280 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To faith and courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas. 
From the Seven Towers,' their banner waves its 

sign; 
Ana Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was 

thine ; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 



Was Rome thy parent ? Didst thou catch from 

her 
The fire that Kves in thine undaunted eye ? 
— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die ! 
Heir of the Caesars I did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath passed 
With its long march of spectred imagery,' 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
Thou ! of an eagle race the noblest and the 
, last ! 



Vain dreams ! Upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the Living Fountain, whence each 

thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with earth's triumphant memories 

fraught, 
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust. 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the 

dust) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon 

the just. 



Tho&e were proud days, when on the battle 

plain. 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst th' array 

1 1 1.<, Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the 
Byzantine history as early as the sixth centuiy of the Chris- 
tian era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the 
defence of Constantinople ; and it was the principal bulwark 
of the town, on the coast of the Propontis, in the later pe- 
riods of the empire. For a description of this building, see 
PouquEviLLE's Travels. 

2 An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in proces- 
sion, at the Sinerals of their great men, the images of their 
tncestors. 



Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the sitln, 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,'' 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands at his voice who started^ 
Called on the unseen terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fear- 
less hearted. 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the graie 
departed ! 



But then, around him as the javelins rushed, 
From earth to heaven swelled up the loud ac- 
claim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation guinea. 
With a bright smile, the warrior eaugnt his namj 
Far floating on the winds ! Ana Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling ! Valor's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bloed 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died- -and 
had his meed. 



But praise — and dearer, holier praise be theirs, 

Who, in the stillness and the solitude 

Of hearts pressed earthwards by a weight of 

cares, 
Uncheered by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal 

food 
Of restless energies, and only viewed 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places, have subdued 
And vowed themselves, with strength till then 

unknown. 
To some high martyr task, in secret and alone. 



* The following was the ceremony of consecration with 
which Decius devoted himself in battle : — He was ordered 
by Valerius, the Pontifex Maximus, to quit his military habit, 
and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then 
covered his head with a veil, commanded him to put forth 
his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both 
feet upon a javelin, to repeat tliese words: — "O Janus, 
Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona ! and ye, Lares and Noven- 
siles ! all you heroes who dwell in heaven ! and ail ye 
gods who rule over us and our enemies — especially yo gods 
of hell ! — I honor you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you 
to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all feaj 
and terror from them to their enemies ; and I do, for the 
safety of the Roman people, and tlieir legions, devote myseU 
and with myself the army auid auxiliaries cf the enemy, t^ 
the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth." Deciua 
then, girding his robe around them, mounted his horse, and 
rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battalions 
The Latins were for a while thunderstruck at this spectacle 
bui. at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shew 
er of darts, imder which the consul fell. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



281 



Theirs be ^he bright and sacred names, enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charmed man- 
kind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 
But to that Sj^irit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence 

arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 



Well might thij name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! — But the scene 

again 
Bursts on my vision, as the daybeams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, 

the plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capped fane. 
With its bright cross fixed high in crowning 

grace ; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, 
And, circling ail with arms, that turbaned race — 
The sun, the desert, stamped in each dark 

haughty face. 



tShout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters ! * Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile ! They crowd the swell- 
ing sail, 
On, with the foam, the sunbeam, and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling 

veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
— And O, the glorious burst of that bright sea 
and shore ! 



liij rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's 

coast, 
All thronged ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing cimeter ! 



1 See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five 
Christian ships, witli men and provisions for the succor of 
the besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantino- 
ple. — Decline an* Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xil. p. 215. 
36 



Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement. 
Decks, with their serried guns, arrayed to bai 
The promised aid : but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line in 
rent ! 



On, on through rushing flame and arrowy showei , 
The welcome prows have cleft their rr pid way , 
And, with the shadows of the vespei hour. 
Furled their white sails, and anchored in the bay 
Then were the streets with song and torchfire 

gay, 

Then the Greek wines flowed mantling in the 

light 
Of festal halls ; and there was joy ! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright — 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight 



For vain that feeble succor ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers arc crumbling, and the sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerful, as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep ! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Flies far ; and in their mien, the walls who tread, 
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be 

read! 



It was a sad and solemn task, to hold 
Their midnight watch on that beleaguered ill ! 
As the sea wave beneath the bastions rolled, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ; 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall. 
The giant shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's ; a low mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, 
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial 
strain. 



For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing, 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song ; 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying. 
The watchword muttered in some eastern tongue. 
Then flashed the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose ; 
And boding thoughts rn^cr^Q o'er them, dark and 
strong ; 



282 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
"Vho see their numbered houis fast pressing to 
the close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the Mightiest ! There is one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen. 
Whose cheek grows paler with each morning sun. 
And tells in silence how the night hath been 
In kingly halls a vigil : yet serene 
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye ; 
And there is that in his collected mien, 
To which the hearts of noble men reply 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 

XXIX. 

Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate 
To pass o'er earth in brightness but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own ! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be, 
StiU following fast ; as when the wind hath blown 
O'er Indian groves,' a wanderer wild and free. 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to 
tree ! 



And it is thus vnth. thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Cfesar ! — yet the few. 
That set their generous bosom to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the 

trr.e, 
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by. 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength ! States vanish — ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to suffer and 

to die ! 



These are our nature's heritage. But thou, 
Thl crowned with empire ! thou wert called to 

share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fevered brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 

1 " The summits of the lofty rocks in the Camatic, par- 
ticularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the 
fcamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such 
Uncommon aridity that, in the sultry season of the year, the 
friction occasioned by a strong, dry wind will literally pro- 
duce sparks of fire, which, frequently setting the woods in a 
Maze, exhibit to the spectator, stationed in a valley surround- 
id by rncks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of fire." 
— AVites to Kindebsijjy's Specimens of Hindoo Literature. 



Which long had passed away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 
As a strong biUow in their weight of care. 
And with all this to smile ! For earth-bom 

frame 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unkno^wn 

to fame ! 

XXXII. 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, 
On the red scaffold; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steeled 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might, 
Yet are proud Nature's ! But her meteor hght 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds ; it falls not 

where 
In silence, and in secret, and in night. 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair. 
And rise more strong than death from its un 

witnessed prayer. 

xxxra. 
Men have been firm in battle ; they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains. 
And won the birthright of their hearths with 

blood. 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes. 
That so their children, undefiled with chains, 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Linked but to perish with a ruined land, 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a 

martyr band ! 

xxxrv. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, per- 
chance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage, where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing owe must 

die, 
Recked not which champion ; but prepared the 

strain, 
And bound the bloody vnreath of victory. 
To greet the conqueror ; while with calm dis 

dain, 
The vanquished proudly met the doom he mel 
in vain. 



The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is iraugu* 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 



ts past to veil the brow of anxious thought, 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed, 
With Hope's fair seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by misery : one alone 
Is left th'; brave, and rest shall be thy meed, 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloi'.dy space which parts the 

grave and throne. 



The signs a*"! full. Thej' are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air. 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears : no meteor banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair ; 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thinned ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruined heaps where wall and towers 
have been ! 

xxxvn. 
It is a night of beauty : such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel shade. 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright. 
Might woo tne nymphs of Grecian fount and 

glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts ; a night to rove alone 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

swayed, 
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone 
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds 

xmknown ; 

/ xxxvm. 
A night to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards ; a night to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of 

old; 
A night for mourners, o'er the hallowed mould. 
To strew sweet flowers — for revellers to fill 
And wreathe the cup — for sorrows to be told 
Which love hath cherished long . Vain thoughts ! 

be still ! 
[t is a night of fate, stamped with Almighty 

WiU! 

XXXIX. 

[t should come sweeping in the storm, and rend- 
ing 
rhe ancient summits in its dread career ! 



And with vast billows wrathfuUy contending. 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing ever'y 

sphere ! 
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 

fear, 
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 
Alike in His omnipotence is near. 
When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway 

blow. 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch 

mountain's brow. 



The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hushed Bosphorus, whose ocean stream 
Sleeps with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus,' in the moonlight gleam. 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Thronged it with gods, and bent th' adoring 

knee ; 
— But that is past — and now the One Suprema 
Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea, 
Ajid Time, which presses on to finish his decree- 



Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 

night : 
Ye have looked down on battles — Fear and 

Flight, 
And armed Revenge, all hurrying past below : 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared than e'er, with tranquil brow, 
Ye gazed on firom your world of solitude and 

snow ! 



Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hUls reCchoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth ! Wild horn and war steeds' 

tramp 
Blent with the sound of barbarous revelry, 
The clash of desert spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on. 
Caught from red watchfires, blazing far and high, 
And countless as the flames in ages gone. 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from 

shadowy Lebanon ! 

1 Those who steer their westward course through tht 
middle of the Proponlis may at once descry the high lands 
of Thrace and Bithyiiia, and never lose sight of the lofty 
summit of Mount Olympus, covered with eternal snow* 
— Decline aitd Fall, Sec, vol. iii. p. 8. 



XLIII. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which -wraps those Eastern thousands ? Yes ! 

perchance 
A.long yon moonli shore and dark-blue deep, 
Bright are their visions with the Houris' glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed 
Rich odors o'er the faithful ; but the lance, 
The boAv, the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread, 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside 

the dead. 



May this be sleep, this hush ? — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny 
E'en now is gazing on the skies to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of 

space, 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect,* and his mien, 
All fired with stormy j oy, by that soft light is seen. 



O, wild presumption of a conqueror's dream. 
To gaze on those pure altar fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! But with the restless 

mind 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assigned 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep, 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon 

must sleep. 



But ye ! that beamed on Fate's tremendous 

night. 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon ; 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet 

blast 
Rang through the Capitol . bright spheres ! 

roll on ! 

1 Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of 
dstrology. His calculations in this science led him to fix 
upon the morning of the 29th of May as the fortunats bour 
for a general attack upon the city. 



Still bright, though empires fall ; and bid man 

cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with 

the past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wrecked cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair. 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the mid« 

night air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day. 
And thrills the soul ; — yet bids us not despair, 
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay. 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to de- 
cay ! 

XLVIII. 

The hours- move on. I see a wavering gleam, 
O'er the hushed waters tremulously fall, 
Poured from the Caesars' palace ; now tha 

beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall. 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound I 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more. 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hushed seaman, gliding past the 

shore. 
How monarchs revel there i Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade ? 
— I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 

were made ! 



In silence, and in arms ! With helm — with 

sword — 
These are no marriage garments ! Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely 

brow 
With an imperial diadem ! * — but thou, 

2 Constantino Palteologus was betrothed to a Georgian 
princess ; and the very spring which witnessed the fall o 
Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for convey- 
ing the imperial bride to that city. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



28S 



O fated prince ! art called, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learned to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, 
And count it joy enough to perish — being free ! 



On through long vestibules, with solemn tread. 
As meu, that in some time of fear and woe. 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The Avarriors pass ; their measured steps are slow. 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls. 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls. 
Sad seems the light itself which on their armor 
faUs! 



And they have reached a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 
With all we dream of splendor ; yet a gloom 
Seems gathered o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 
StiU from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! — hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already ? Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 



O, there are times whose pleasure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions ! When the storm 

beats loud, 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base. 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the 

crowd ? 
— Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us khidred, by one chastening 

bowed, 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower. 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power ! 



Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, 
[ts loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, 
Li the deep human heart, more gloriously 
Than in the bursting thunder ! Thence the weak, 
They that seemed foimcd, as flower stems, but 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose 

name 
Btill calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, 



And thrills the pulse ! — Ay, strength no pangg 

could tame 
Hath looked from woman's eye upon the sword 

and flame ! 



And this is of such hours ! — That throne is void, 
And its lord comes uncrowned. Behold hint 

stand. 
With a calm brow, where woes have not de- 
stroyed 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midft his band, 
The gathered virtue of a sinking land .- 
Alas ! how scanty ! Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ; each noble hand 
Is pressed by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope 
hath died ! 



A moment's hush — and then he speaks — he 

speaks ! 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory — as he seeks. 
By the strong names of Rome and Libert)', 
Which yet are living powers that fire the ej'e.. 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall i 



His words are fuU of faith ! — and thoughts, 

more high 
Than Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance with 

light ; 
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die. 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright. 
Have theirs replied in tears, wliich may not 

shame 
The bravest in such moments ! 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendors cold and tame, 
— That generous burst of soul, with its electric 

flame ! 



They weep — those champions of the Cross — 

they weep, 
Yet vow themselves to death ! Ay, 'midst thai 

train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice ! The pang is vain, 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 



286 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



A warrior's sword. Those men are strangers 

hero : ' 
The homes they never may behold again 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to Avhich their barks no 

more shall steer ! 



Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers ? ° 
WTiere, through dark foliage, gleam the citron's 

dyes ? 
— It is "their o\ati. They see their fathers' 

towers 
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sails' return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
O, what a crowded world one moment may 

contain ! 



Such moments come to thousands ! — few may 

die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the 

brave, 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scattered fast and far, as rose leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall ; 
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 

to all ! 



But life flows on, and b%ars us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by tlio slumberers dwell. 
Though they were those once blooming at our 

side 
In youth's gay home ! Away ! what sound's 

deep swell 
Comes on the wind ? — It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night ! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn beU 
Wliich calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

1 Many o'' the adherent? of Constantine, in his last noble 
•land for tlie lihetties, or rather tlie honor, of a falling em- 
pire, were foreigners, and ciiiefly Italians. 

2 This and tlie next line are an almost literal translation 
fcom a beautiful song of Goethe's : — 

" KeDTist du das land, wo die zitronen blohn 
M't dunkelD laub die gold orangen glutm ? " etc. 



Again, and yet again ! A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever ; for they bear, 
Full on remembrance, 'each eventful hour 
Checkering life's crowded path. They fill the ail 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's ; and when your brides are led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets on midnight's cloud waves red 
And when the silent house receives its guest — 
the dead.^ 



But to those tones what thrilling soul wa« 

given 
On that last night of empire ! As a spell 
Whereby the lifeblood to its source is driven, 
On the chilled heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seemed a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel watcher's long and sad farewell, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's 

decay. 



Again, and yet again ! — from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awJ'ully ; and they 
Who never more, to rest in mortal home, 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band, in close and armed array. 
As men that from the sword must part no 

more. 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way. 
Within their ancient temple to adore. 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp 

are o'er, 



It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which Forgetfulness her balm hath shed 
In the beleaguered city. Stillnfiss lies. 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, 
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to 

greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street, 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious 

why they meet. 



8 The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified 
in Schiller's poem, " Das Lied der Glocke." 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



287 



Their homes are luxury's yet ; "why.pour they 

thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye ? 
Hath the dread car Avhich bears the pestQence, 
In darkness, -with its heavy wheels rolled by, 
And rocked their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind passed ? From couch and joyous 

board 
Hath the tierce phantom beckoned them to die ! ' 
— No ! — what are these ? — for them a cup is 

poured 
More dark with wrath : man comes — the spoiler 

and the sword. 



Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues, deeply red like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasped 

in prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears ; all outward 

shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : 
Greeks ! Romans ! all but such as image brave 
despair ! 

LXVIII. 

But high above that scene, in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no lifeblood flows. 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal : lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore ! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought, 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion ! Yet 'twas man that caught. 
And in each glorious form enshrined, immortal 

thought ! 



Stood ve not thus amidst the streets of Rome ? 
That Rome which witnessed, in her sceptred 

days. 
So much of noble death ? When shrine and 

dome. 
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays, 

1 It is said to be a Greek superstition, that the plague Is 
Uinounced liy tiie heavy rolling of an invisible chariot heard 
in the ctieet^ ai midnight, and also by the appearance of a 
{igantic spectre w lo summons the devoted person by name. 



As the long triumph passed, with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
O sovereign forms ! concentring all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? — did yc not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and 
to mourn ? 



Hath it been thus ? — Or did ye grace the haUs 
Once peopled by the mighty ? Haply there. 
In your still grandeur, from the pillared walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair," 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to 

dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glovf 
Of living wreaths, the sisrhs of perfumed air, 
The sound of lyres, the flower- crowned goblet'g 

flow. 
— Behold again ! — high hearts make nobler of- 
ferings now ! 



The stately fane is reached — and at its gate 
The warriors pause. On life's tumultuous tid« 
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state 
Hath marked from all, to be more sternly tried 
By suffering, speaks — each ruder voice hatV 

died, 
W^hile his implores forgiveness ! — "If there be 
One 'midst your throngs, my pcojjle ! whom, in 

pride 
Or passion, I have wronged, such pardon free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man 

to me ! " 



But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies ! He hath not been of those 
Who, feared by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all; th' environed but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose, 
For they have heard the voice cry, " Sleep no 

more ! ' ' 
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er 
When it speaks low, and kneels th' oppressor's 

throne before ! 

LXXIII. 

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race r — in other mould 

s Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by 
persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient 
history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst th* 
moat memorable 



288 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCEXES. 



Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, 
And call him not forsaken ! — thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves fii-mly to the shrine. What pomps unfoid 
Within its precincts ! Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' im- 
perial dead ! 

Lxxrv. 
'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 
Of ancient days ! The lamps are streaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillared isle, 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendors, as the wavering light 
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the veined marbles, which array their height, 
And from j'on dome, the loadstar of all eyes,' 
Pour such an iris glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's 

own hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie — 
Though tints of sun-born glory may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic — pass thou by 
The stately tombs where Eastern Caesars lie 
Beneath their trophies ; pause not here — for 

know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom than the world can show 
In nature or in art — above, around, below. 

LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar stone ; 
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze ; 
Those heads unhelmed, those kneeling forms 

alone. 
Thus bowed, look glorious here. The light is 

thrown 
Full frcBO the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufferer ! but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is poured. 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re- 

stcred ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band pf brethren part. 
Once — and but once — to meet on earth again ! 



1 For a minute description of the marbleg, jaspers, and 
porphyries, employed iii the construction of St. Sophia, see 
The Decline and Fall, Sec, vol. vii. p. 120. 



Each, in the strength of a collected heart. 

To dare what man may dare — and know 'tU 

vain ! 
The rite is o'er; and thou, majestic fane ! 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! — 
Be clothed with dust ! — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within these walls ; thy Cross must 

bow. 
Thy kingly tombs be spoiled, the golden shrines 

laid low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star, 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn. 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war. 
As if young Hope with twilight's ray were bonv 
A while the city sleeps ; her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire 
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle sounds ; ^ the winds in sighs expire 
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sun- 
beam's fire. 

LXXIS. 

The city sleeps ! Ay, on the combat's eve, 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the 

swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered 

well. 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, 
Chained between life and death. Such rest be 

thine, 
For conflicts wait thee still ! — yet who can tell, 
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream ! — Sleep, weary Con- 

stantine ! 

LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise ? — the clouded east is red. 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 

2 The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the 
Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which 
had also been commanded, on pain of death, during the 
preceding night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by 
Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine PaloBologas -. — 
" Silent shall be the march ; nor drum, nor trump, 
Nor cUosh of armg, shall to tlie watchful foe 
Our near approach betray : silent and soft 
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 
Slow stealing with crouched shoulders on her prey." 
Constantine Pal^olool's, act iv. 

"The march and labor of thousands" must, however, aa 
Gibbon observes, " have inevitably produced a strange con- 
fusion of discordant clamors, which reached the ears of th» 
watchmen on the towers." 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



289 



What seems like heavy raindrops, or the tread, 
The soft and smothered step, of those that fear 
Surprise from ambushed foes. Hark ! yet more 

near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling as of winds where boughs are sere — 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far — a heavy rush, like seas that burst 

their bound ! 

LXXXI. 

Wake ! wake ! They come from sea and shore 

ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rend- 
ing, 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply ; 
And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle cry, 
■^ill that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky ! 

LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
— Shall those high energies be vainly shown ? 
No ! from their towers th' invading tide is 

driven 
Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds ! The dark-browed ranks 

are riven : * 
Shout, warriors of the Cross ! — for victory is 

of Heaven ! 

LXXXIII. 

Stand firm ! Again the Crescent host is rushing, 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! — there yet is hope ; th' ascent is 

steep. 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain. 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled 

heap, 

1 " After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still main- 
tained and preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The 
strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune 
ef the day. 

37 



In the red moat, the dying and the slain, 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 
again ! 

Lxxxrv. 
O, the dread mingling, in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! — the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, 
The deep dull tambour's beat — man's voice 

alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, 

and moan. 
All drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for 

victory ! 



War clouds have wrapped the city ! — through 

their dun 
O'erloaded cano2)y, at times a blaze 
As of an angry storm- presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ! ^ and lightning 

rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 

— Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze, 

But fearful things unknown, untold, are there — 
Workings of wrath, and death, and anguish, and 
despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Woe, shame and woe ! — A chief, a warrior 

flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and 

pale ! 

— O God ! that Nature's passing agonies 
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, shouJd 

prevail ! 
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shattered mail, 
And stanch the blooddrops, Genoa's fallen son ! ' 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 

2 " A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Con- 
stantinople is the union of tlie ancient and modern artillerv 
The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against th« 
same wall ; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded 
the use of the liquid and inextinguishable fire." — Declin* 
and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 213. 

3 " The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascrlt)«l 
to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John 
Justiniani, (a Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood and 
exquisite pain appalled the couraf, - of the chief, whose arms 
and counsels were the firmest rampaii if thecity."— /JccZiw 
and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. S>29 



290 



TALES AND HISTOTIIC SCENES. 



— But there are tortures which thou canst not 

shun : 
The spirit is their prey — thy pangs are but 

begun ! 



O, happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed, 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name ! 
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame, 
And stars drop, fading from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change 

for them ! 

LXXXTIir. 

Where art thou, Constantine ? — where death is 

reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! — where the stormy light. 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, 
Throws meteor bursts o'er battle's noonday 

night ! 
Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height. 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, 
Wliile cimeters ring loud on shivering pan- 
oply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou, Constantine ? — Where Chris- 
tian blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where faith and valor perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment ; where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the Cross lie strewed 
Thick as the vine leaves on th' autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued. 
And through the breach press on th' o'er- 
whelming multitude. 



Now is he battling 'midst a host alone. 

As the last cedar stems a while the sway 

Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 

Its forest brethren in their green array ! 

And he hath cast hi'=' purple robe away, 

With its imperip.l oearings, that his sword 

A.n iron ransom from the chain may pay, 



And win, what haply fate may yet acbord, 
A soldier's death — the all now left au empire'! 
lord. 



Search for him now where bloodiest Iw the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the 

brave ! 
Search for him now where loftiest rist. the piles 
Of shattered helms and shields which <30uld not 

save, 
And crests and banners nevermore to <vavo 
In the free winds of heaven ! He is ^ti those 
O'er whom the host may rush, th^ tempeat 

rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the speai^non close, 
Yet wake them not ! — so deep then long and 

last repose ! 



Woe to the vanquished ! — thus it hath boen still 
Since Time's first march ! Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! The lot is cast. 
Slaves ! 'twas your choice thus, rather thus, to 

die. 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 

fast, 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to 
the last ! 



O, well doth freedom battle ! Men have made, 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand, 
And on the floors, where once their children 

played. 
And by the hearths, round which their house- 
hold band 
At evening met ; ay, struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ' But ye ! — kneel, trem- 
blers ! kneel, and weep ! 



'Tis eve — the storm hath died, the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work ij 

done, 
And bloodstained seas and burning powers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 



THE LAST CONSTAXTINE. 



2?« 



Upon the captive citj'. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell 
The Soldan comes within the CaKsar's halls to 
dwell ! 



Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
He comes : the Moslem treads those ancient 

halls! 
But all is stillness there, as death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appalls 
The conqueror's heart. Ay ! thus with tri- 
umph's hour, 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er grandeur's path, a sense of some far 
miffhtier Power ! 



" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch song,' and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web ! " — Still darkly 

hung. 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone. 
O'er his flushed spirit. Years on years have 

flown 
To prove its truth ; kings pile their domes in air. 
That the coQed snake may bask on sculptured 

stone, 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwell- 
ings there ! 

xcvii. 
But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crowned leader in such hours should die. 
Upon thy pyre of shivered spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy. 
And banners for thy sliroud ! No tear, no 

sigh 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! reared on high. 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow : 
But where no change can reach — there, Con- 

stantine, art thou ! 

1 Moliammed 11., on entering, after his victory, the palace 
Df the I$)2antine emperors, was strongly impressed witli the 
lilence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. 
" A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of liuman 
greatness forced itseK on his mind, and he repeated an ele- 
gant distich of Persian poetry : ' 'J"he spider has wove his 
web in the ini. lerial |)alace, and the owl hath sung her watch 
long on the towers of Afrasiab.'" — Decline and Fall, Sec, 
vol. xii. p. 240. 



XCVIII. 

" After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well ! " 
We may not mourn thee ! Sceptred chiefs, from 

whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling — to a sterner doom 
Have oft been called. For them the dungeon.*! 

gloom, 
With its cold, starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weighed 
Their very soul to dust, with each high powe* 

decayed. 

xcix. 
Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of death ; but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appealed thei" 

blood. 
But thou didst fall unfettered, armed, and free. 
And kingly to the last ! And if it be. 
That from the viewless world, whose marvels 

none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth, still mayst thoii hail the sun 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when freedom'o 

fight is won ! 



And the hour comes, in storm ! A light u 

glancing 
Far through the forest god's Arcadian shades ! 

— 'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, 
Round dark Cithaeron and by Delphi's steep ; 

— 'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep. 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 

deep ! 



Arms glitter on the mountains, which'of old 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson, as they rolled 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet ; and the tombs reply, 
Witli their ten thousand echoes, from each plaiu, 
Far as Plata^a's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crowned so proudly there the bowl of lib- 
erty ! '^ 

2 <.tne of the ceremonies by which the battle of PlaUea 
was annually commemorated was, to crown with wine a 



292 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Bright land, with glory mantled o'er by song ! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along 
Still the soft air vdth inspiration teems ; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 
To verse forever ; and of ruined shrines, 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ! 
— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 

their vines i 



Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 
fear ! 

— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantinea's earth ? — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave ? 

And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 

By Sparta's ruins ? And shall man, a slave, 

Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 

— If e'er a soil was marked for freedom's step, 

'tis thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains with battle show- 
ers. 

— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive bowers. 
In the Comneni's halls the Tartar sways ; ' 
But not for long ! — the spirit of those days. 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 

Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the De- 
lian isle. 



If then 'tis given thee to arise in might, 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain, 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the 

dust! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, 

tup called the Bovl of laberty, which was afterwards poured 
forth in libation. 

1 The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of 
the families who filled the Byzantme throne in the declining 
rears of the Eastern Empire. 



She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable — < 
but just. 

ANNOTATION ON "THE LAST OONSTANTINK." 

[It may seem necessary to mention that " The Last Con 
stantine " first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along 
with " Belshazzar's Feast," the " Siege of Valencia," and 
some lyrical miscellanies. 

" The present publication appears to us (Dr. Morehead in 
Constable^s Magazine, September, 1823) in every respect 
superior to any thing Mrs. Hemans has yet written ; mora 
powerful in particular passages — more interesting in the 
narrative part — as pathetic and delicate in the reflective — 
as elaborately faultless in its" versification — as copious in 
imagery. Of the longer poems, ' The Last Constantino ' ia 

our favorite The leading features of Con- 

stantine's character seem to be taken from the unequal, but, 
on the whole, admirable play of Constantine Palaoiogus, by 
the gifted rival of our authoress, Joanna Baillie ; and the 
picture of that enduring and Christian courage which, in the 
midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the last 
of the Cjesars, when all earthly hope and help had failed 
him, is eminently touching and poetical. The following 
stanzas appear to us particularly beautiful : — 

' Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air of battle,' etc. 

The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of 
Constantino's character is still more fully brought out, are 
likewise excellent : — 

' It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight watch on that beleaguered wall,' etc. 

These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably 
expressed, full of eloquence and melody; and the poem con- 
tains many others equally beautiful. As we have already 
hinted, the story might have been better told — or rather^ 
there is scarcely any story at all ; but the reader is boma 
down the stream of pensive reflection so gently and so easily 
that he scarcely perceives the want of it."] 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; 

OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 

[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the 
tyranny of the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of 
Austria. The field called the Grutli, at the foot of the See- 
lisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, 
was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Furst, (the 
ft»ther-in-ldw of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and 
Erni ,or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to de 
liberate on the accomplishment of their projects. 

" Hither came Furst and Melchthal along secret paths over 
the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of 
the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the 11th of No- 
veniljcr, 1307, they met here, eacii with ten associates, men 
of approved worth ; and wliile, at this solemn hour, they 
were wrapped in the contemplation that on their success 
depnnded the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter 
and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the nama 
of the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable 
degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend 
that freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



29S 



*we, and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all 
.lis saints, that they were firmly bent on ofTering up their 
ives for the defence of their injured liberty. They then 
lalmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the pres- 
ent each returned to his hamlet." — Planta's History of the 
Helvetic Confedaracy. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throw- 
ing olT the Austrian yoke, and " it is well attested," says the 
fame author, " that not one drop of blood was shed on this 
memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the 
loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss 
met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed 
by oatli their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their 
perpetual league."] 



TwAS night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild 

horn,' 
Like a wind's voice, had poured its last long tone, 
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch woods 

borne, 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone 
By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest ; 
The chamois slumbered, for the chase was 

done; 
His cavern bed of moss the hunter pressed, 
And the rock eagle couched high on his cloudy 

nest. 



Did the land sleep ? The woodman's axe had 

ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gathered in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hushed by the streams ; the year was in its wane, 
The night in its mid- watch — it was a time 
E'en marked and hallowed unto slumber's reign ; 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, 
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the 

clime. 



For there, where snows in crowning glory 

spread, 
High and unmarked by mortal footstep lay ; 
And there, where torrents, 'mid the ice caves 

fed. 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air. 
O'er cliffs the very birthplace of the day — 

1 Senn, the name given to a herdsmcin among the Swiss 
^Jp8. 



O, who would dream that Tyranny could dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright 
works e'en there ? 



Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gtish- 

ing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell, 
And the glad heights, through mist and tem- 
pest rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire glance earliest fell, 
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet 

bell 
Recalled such life as Eastern patriarchs led ; 
The7-e peasant men their free thoughts might not 

tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread. 
And hoUow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull 
stealthy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd homes. 

On its green hills in quiet joy reclining. 

With their bright hearthfires, 'midst the t%vi- 

light glooms. 
From bowery lattice through the fir woods shin- 
ing— 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with aU memories loved and 

blest — 
In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast j 
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its 
rest ! 



A sound went up — the wave's dark sleep wai 

broken — 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar —; 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's to- 
ken 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torchfires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight flood, 
A band of patriot men on Grutli's verdure stood. 



They stood in arms, the woLf spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain 

race ; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe? 
— Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chaae^ 



294 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



True hearts in fight, were gathered on that 

place 
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face : 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 



')'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flowed, and still, from sire to son. 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. But silent on its height. 
The snow mass, full of death, Avhile ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light. 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 

IX. 

So were they roused. Th' invading step had 

passed 
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door, 
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's 

blast,' 
Could bar Oppression from their home no more. 
Why, Avhat had she to do where all things wore 
Wild grandeur's impress ? In the storm's free 

way, 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that -vvinged their eagles with 

the day ? 



This might not long be borne : the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling. 
Fraught with His name whose awful presence 

iills 
Their deep lone places, and forever telling 
That He hath made man free ! and they whose 

dwelling 
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear ; 
The weight of sufl'erance from their hearts ra- 

pelling, 
They rose — the forester — the mountaineer — 
O, what hath earth more strong than the good 

peasant spear ? 



Sacred be Grutli's field ! Their vigQ keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer night, 



1 Fohnwind, the south-east wind, which frequently lays 
vaste the country b6fot« it. i 



There, while the sons of happier lands weM 

sleeping. 
Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppressed, had given their deep 

thoughts way. 
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight, 
With lovely images of homes that lay 
Bowered 'midst the rustling pines, or by the tor- 
rent spray. 



Now had endurance reached its bounds ! They 

came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name. 
When they should gather on their hiUs to die. 
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. 'Twas a scene combin- 
ing 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky, 
The stars, the waves their softened light en- 
shrining. 
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Na- 
ture shining;. 



Calmly they stood, and with collected mien. 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low — 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet 

flow. 
Had tempered in their thoughtful hearts the 

glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre note soft and slow, 
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself loi 

death. 



And three, that seemed as chieftains of tha 

band. 
Were gathered in the midst on that lone shore 
By Uri's lake. A father of the land,* 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days, whose shadows had passed o'er 
His path among the hills, and quenched tha 

dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory's Ion 
Still his life's evening drew its lovehest gleams, 
For he had walked with God, beside the moun- 
tain streams. 

2 Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell 



A.n(l his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone, 
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit ? He was one 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done. 
And reaped his harvest, and his vintage pressed, 
Fearless of wrong ; and now, at set of sun, 
He bowed not to his years, for on the breast 
•)£ a still chainless land he deemed it much to 
rest. 



But for such holy rest strong hands must toil. 
Strong hearts endure ! By that pale elder's 

side, 
Stood one that seemed a monarch of the soil. 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride — 
Werner,' the brave and true ! If men have 

died 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, 
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried 
Within his breast, " Arise ! "" came still and 

deep 
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in 

moonlight sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for ! As it rose 
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
A.nd laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound. 
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground, 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by, 
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 



But who was he that on his hunting spear 
Leaned, with a prouder and more fiery bearing ? 
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear. 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul de- 
claring 
War against earth's oppressors. 'Midst that 

throng 
Of other mould he seemed, and loftier djiring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along, 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song — 

1 Werner Stauflacher, who had been urged by his wife 
to reuse and unite his countrymen for the deliverance of 
Switzerland 



A memory on the mountains ! — one to stand, 
When the hills echoed with the deepening 

swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock defile, or savage dell, 
Array her peasant children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains ' 
Aj", one to fold around him, as he fell. 
Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 
The joy of daiiger flowed, as torrents, to the 

plains. 



There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick flashing eye ; a something born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright. 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn ! 
It well might be ! — Young Erni's step had 

worn ^ 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, 
And tracked the lynx above the clouds of 

morn, 
And followed where the flying chamois leaps 
Across tlic dark-blue rifts, th' unfathomed glacier 

deeps. 



He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crowned heights of joy and liberty. 
And thoughts of power. He knew each pat^ 

which led 
To the rock's treasure caves, whose crystal shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone 
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer ^ had spread 
A startled wing — for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 

xxn. 

His step had tracked the waste, his soul had 

stirred 
The ancient solitudes — his voice had told 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven.* That tald 

was heard 
In Hash's dales, and where the shepherds fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the hght 
Of day's last footsteps bathes in burning gold 

2 Emi — Arnold Melchthal. 

3 The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle 

* The eyes of his aged father had been put out liy tin 
orders of the Austrian governor. 



298 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Great Righi's cliffs : and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his 

might. 



Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter 

passed, 
And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
There leaped a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and 

fast, 
Ad the clear waters, joyously and free. 
Burst from the desert rock, it rushed at last, 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the For- 
est Sea.* 



They linked their hands, they pledged their 

stainless faith 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven, 
They bound theii hearts to suffering and to death. 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. How nobly man hud striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew, 
And called upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea wave on, and Egypt's might 

o'er threw. 



They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright raid air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast hearted. 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast Oi freedom's echoing 
horn ! 



1 Forest 8«« — ihe Lake of the Four Cantons is irequently 
30 cilled 



The ice vaults trembled, wnen that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillnass which around them hung 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung ; 
And the flame signals through the midnight 

sprung 
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming 
To the far Scelisberg; whence light was flung 
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor heaven m its wild splendor 

seeming. 

XXVII. 

And the winds tossed each summit's blazing 

crest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines. 
Felled where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest. 
Heaped up the flames. The clouds grew fiery 

signs. 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines, 
Reddening the distance. Wine cups, crowned 

and bright. 
In Werner's dwelling flowed ; through leaflesa 

vines 
From Walter's hearth streamed forth the festivt 

light. 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaven 

that night. 

xxvm. 

Then on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine — and its bell 
Filled the hushed air a while, with lonely 

sway ; 
For the stream's voice was chained by vdnter'a 

spell. 
The deep wood sounds had ceased. But rock 

and dell 
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Pealed from the mountain churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alpr 

were free ! 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



297 



SONGS OP THE CID.^ 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar.' 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, 
From his home in good Castile he went ; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
For the noble Cid was a banished man ! 

Through his olive woods the morn breeze played, 
And his native streams wild music made, 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay. 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took. 
And he turned his steed for a parting look, 
For a parting look at his own fair towers, 
- - 0, the exile's heart hath weary hours ! 

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed, 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment staid — 
It xoas but a moment — the halls were lone, 
And the gates of his dwelhng all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall. 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall. 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.' 

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye. 
As the voice of his native groves went by ; 
And he said, "My foemen their wish have 

won: 
Now the will of God be in all things done ! " 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, 
And the wiads of the morning swept off the tear. 



1 These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, 
ivX are founded upon some of the " wild and wonderful " 
traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and 
the ancient poem of the Cid. 

s Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle 
ibout two leagues from Burgos. 

» " Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando : 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin caSados, 
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin raantos : 
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. 
8osplr6 mio Cid." — Poem of t\» Cid. 
38 



And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 

— He is gone from the towers of his own Birar . 



THE CID'S DEATH BED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring heaven lay stiU and cleai 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes. 

And steps of hurrying feet, 
Where the Zambra's * notes were wont to rise, 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief 

On bright Valencia's shore. 
For Death was busy with her chie£^ 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor king's barks were on the deep, 

With sounds and signs of war ; 
But the Cid was passing to his sleep, 

In the silent Alcazar. 

No moan was heard through the towers of ittatet 

No weeper's aspect seen. 
But by the couch Ximena sate. 

With pale yet steadfast mien.* 

Stillness was round the leader's bed, 

Warriors stood mournful nigh, 
And banners, o'er his glorious head, 

Were drooping heavily. 

And feeble grew the conquering hand. 

And cold the valiant breast ; 
He had fought the battles of the land. 

And his hour was come to rest. 

What said the Ruler of the field ? 

— His voice is faint and low ; 
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shieli 

Hath louder accents now. 

« The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Talencia WM 
taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish fam-lies chose to 
remain there, and reside under his govemmept. 

» The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequentlj alluded to in 
the romances. 



298 



SO^JQS OP THE CID. 



' Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 

Be made when I depart ; 
The Moor muFt hear no dirge's tone ; 
Be ye of mighty heart ! 

" Let the cymbal clash and the trumpet s^n'i 
From 3'our -walls ring far and shrill ; 

Ajid fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 
Shall grajit you victory still. 

" And gird my form Avith mail array, 

And set me on my steed ; 
So go ye forth on your funeral way, 

And God shall give you speed. 

" Go with the dead in the front of war, 

All armed with sword and helm,' 
And march by the camp of King Bucar, 

For the good CastUian realm. 

•' And let me slumber in the soil • 

Which gave my fathers birth ; 
I have closed my day of battle toil, 

And my course is done on earth." 

— Now wave, ye glorious banners ! wave ! 

Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, 
And the arms, o'er the death bed of the brave, 

Send forth a hollow sigh. 

Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 

As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 
The wind and the banners fall hushed as 
night : 

The Campeador — he sleeps ! 

Sound the battle horn on the breeze of morn, 
And swell out the trumpet's blast. 

Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail. 
For the noble Cid hath passed ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PEOCESSION. 

The Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers, 
And lances gleamed up through her citron 
bowers, 

1 " Banderas antiguas, tristes 

De victorias uii tiempo amadas, 
Tremolando estan al viento 
Y lloran aunque no hablan," &c. 
Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach 
Bpanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their 
■pirit and scrupulous fidelity. 



And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain j 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death 

wind sweeps, 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich 

runs, 
For the shrill horn of Afric had called her sons 
To the battles of the West. 

TVe midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard, 
Liki the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 
The s+ars we^e shining o'er tower and wave, 
And th? camp lay hushed as a wizard's cave ; 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barded steed. 
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need, 
And they fixed the pword in the cold right han^ 
Which had fought so we'l fc^ his father's land, 
And the shield from his neck hung bright 

There was arming heard in Yal?nc:a's hails, 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded nor clouds turned red, 
When the knights had girded the noble dead; 
And the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle shout. 

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep; 
When the last through the city's gates had gone. 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, 
With a sunburst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went armed 

before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ; ' 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn. 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne. 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men I 

2 " And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ru> 
Diez coming up with three hundred knights ; for he bad 
not been in the battle, and they knew his green pennon," -~ 
Southey's Chrmiicles of tin Cid. 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



291 



rhe helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword. 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone. 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets 

far. 
Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, 
— So the burial train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one. 
Was the still death march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands. 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long. 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
— With a sudden flash of the lance and spear. 
And a charge of the war steed in full career. 
It was Alvar Fanez came ! ' 

He that was wrapped with no funeral shroud. 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rushed down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer Queen,* with her bands, lay 
slain ; 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Libyan kings who had joined his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay. 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed. 



1 Alvar Fanez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished 
warriors. 

2 A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female war- 
riors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows 
wore 60 unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star 
•f Archers. 

" Una Mora muy gallarda. 
Gran maeetra en el tirar, 
Con Saetas del Aljava, 
De los arcoe de l\irquia 
EetrcUa era nonibrada, 
Por la destrcza que avis 
En el herir de la Xara." 



All white as the snow on Nevada's steep. 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep 

— 'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire and a banner pale. 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail ; 
He rode in the battle's van I 

There was fear in the path of his dim white 

horse, 
There was death in the giant warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed with its ghostly 

light. 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 

flight — 
For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grow darkly red, 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased 
to slay. 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. 

— So the Cid to his grave passed on ! 



THE CID'S RISING. 

'TwAS the deep mid watch of the silent night, 

And Leon in slumber lay, 
When a sound went forth in rushing might, 
Like an army on its way ! ' 
In the stillness of the hour 
When the dreams of sleep have power, 
And men forget the day. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it went, 

Till the slumberers woke in iread ; — 
The sound of a passing armament. 
With the charger's stony tread. 
There was heard no trumpet's peal, 
But the heavy tramp of steel. 
As a host's to combat led. 

Through the dark and lonely streets it passed, 
And the hollow pavement rang, 

» See Southbt's Chronicle of the Cid. p. 353. 



300 



GREEK SONGS. 



And the towers, as -with a sweeping blast, 
Rocked to the stormy clang ! 
But the march of the viewless train 
Went on to a royal fane, 
Where a priest his night hymn sang. 

There was knocking that shook the marble 
floor, 

And a voice at the gate, which said — 
" That the Cid lluy Diez, the Campeador, 

Was there in his arms arrayed ; 



And that with him, from the tomb, 
Had the Count Gonzalez come 
With a host, uprisen to aid ! 

" And they came for the buried king that lay 

At rest in that ancient fane ; 
For he must be armed on the battle day, 
With them to deliver Spain ! " 
— Then the march went sounding on, 
And the Moors by noontide sun 
Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 



GREEK SONGS. 



THE STORM OF DELPHI.' 

Far through the Delphian shades 
An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high, 
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky ; 
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades, 
To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 
All waving as a flame, 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear head 
On the dim wood paths of the mountain shed, 
And a peal of Asia's war notes told 
That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 
On his quiver and his crest ; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel stems. 
As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 
And a heavy moan went by ! 
A. moan, yet not Uke the wind's low swell, 
NV^en its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay, 
Or a warrior's dying sigh. 

A gloom fell o'er their way ! 
'Twas not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine boughs, as they crossed the blue 
Df the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 



I See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitfobd^s 
Ortec*. 



The air was filled with a mightier sway — 
But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread 

Came the echoes of the ground ; 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erbome. 
And the wailing blast of the battle horn 
Had an altered cadence, duU and dead, 
Of strange foreboding sound. 

But they blew a louder strain, 

When the steep defiles were passed ! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose, 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snowa, 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone ; 
For the sun god yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars looked a while, 
Though the stormy shade on clifl' and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble walls repHed 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, 
Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armor of the god 
Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corselet brought from the shrine within. 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abfide, 
And before its front arrayed. 



GREEK SONGS. 



301 



And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the "W'ild bird's wing and the myrtle spray, 
And the very founts in their silvery way : 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon ! 
'Twas not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers, 
But there burst a sound through the misty 
noon — 
That battle noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It rolled from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment on the mountain blast 
With a thousand stormy voices passed ; 

&jid the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 
When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flashed forth like javelins thrown; 
Like sun darts winged from the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow ; 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like 
spray. 
And the banners were struck down ! 

4.nd the massy oak boughs crashed 
To the fire bolts from on high, 
And the forest lent its billowy roar. 
While the glorious tempest onward bore. 

And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed. 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rushed the Delphian men 
On the pale and scattered host. 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave ; 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 
Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay. 
There were shouts of warrior glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's 

mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away. 
Still rose, with its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 
lo Paean ! from the fane ; 
lo Paean ! for the war array 
On the crowned Parnassus riven that day ! 



— Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song 
With thy bounding streams again. 



THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.' 

Before the fiery sun — 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye^ 
In the free air, and on the war field won — 
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood, 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies, 
And the wide plain around, where patriot blood 
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They called the glorious dead, 
In the strong faith which brings the viewlesi 

nigh. 
And poured rich odors o'er their battle bed, 
And bade them to their rite of Liberty. 

They called them from the shades — 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, 
And music floats o'er meads of asphodeL 

Then fast the bright-red wine 
Flowed to their names who taught the world 

to die. 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine, 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.* 

So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil, thus hallowed to the brave. 

We have the battle fields, 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty ? 



THE VOICE OF SCIO. 

A VOICE from Scio's isle — 
A voice of song, a voice of old 
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled, 

And earth was hushed tlie while — 

1 This and the followng piece appeared originally *b tn« 

^ew Monthly Magazine. 

2 For an account of this ceremony, anciently perfonned 
in commemoration of the battle of Plataia see Potteu's 
Jlntiquitics iif Greece, vol. i. p. 38<* 



S02 GREEK 


SONGS. 


The souls of nations woke ! 


And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 


Where lies the land whose hiUs among 


Eurotas wandered by, 


That voice of ^■icto^y hath not rang, 


When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 


As if a trumpet spoke ? 


Of solemn harmony. 


To sky, and sea, and shore, 


Was it the hunters' choral strain 


Of those whose blood on Ilion's plain 


To the woodland goddess poured ? 


Swept from the rivers to the main, 


Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 


A glorious tale it bore. 


Strike the full-sounding chord ? 


Still by our sun-bright deep, 


But helms were glancing on the stream, 


"With all the fame that fiery lay 


Spears ranged in close array, 


Threw round them, in its rushing "way, 


And shields flung back a glorious beam 


The sons of battle sleep. 


To the morn of a fearful day ! 


And kings their turf have crowned ' 


And the mountain echoes of the land 


And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 


Swelled through the deep-blue sky ; 


Brought garlands there : so rest the brav«. 


While to soft strains moved forth a band 


Who thus their bard have found ! 


Of men that moved to die. 


A voice from Scio's isle, 


They ma^-ched not M'ith the trumpet's blast, 


A voice 0.3 deep hath risen again ; 


Nor bade the horn peal out ; 


As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 


And the laurel groves, as on they passed. 


Where'er our sun may smile ! 


Rang with no battle shout ! 


Let not its tones expire ! 


They asked no clarion's voice to fire 


Such power to waken earth and heaven. 


Their souls with an impidse high ; 


And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 


But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 


To mortal song or Ijtc ! 


For the sons of liberty ! 


Know ye not whence it comes ? 


And still sweet flutes their path around 


— From ruined hearths, from burning fanes. 


Sent forth ^olian breath ; 


From kindred blood on yon red plains. 


They needed not a sterner sound 


From desolated homes ! 


To marshal them for death ! 


'Tis ^^■ith us through the night ! 


So moved they calmly to their field, 


'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky — 


Thence never to return. 


Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high 


Save bearing back the Spartan shield. 


O'er the mid waves of fight ! 


Or on it proudly borne ! 


THE SPARTANS' MARCH.» 






THE URN AND SWORD. 


^" The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 




jattle, says 'I'hiirydiiles, b6ca\ise they wished not to excite 




Uie rate of their warriors. Tlieir charging step was made 


They sought for treasures in the tomb. 


U tlie ' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The 


Where gentler hands were Avont to spread 


valor of a Spartan was too liighly tempered to require a 


Fresh boughs and flowers of purplp bloom. 


itmning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed 


And sunny ringlets, for the dead.* 


loo proud for the spur." — Campbkul,, on the Elegiac Poetry 




^ the Greckn.] 






They scattered far the greensward heap, 


L'wAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 


Where once those hands the bright wine poured 


Where peasants dressed the vines ; 


— What found they in the home of sleep ? — 


Sunlignt was on Cithaeron's lills. 


A mouldering txm, a shivered sword ! 


Arcadia's rocks and pines. 




I Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine. 


2 See Porter's OreLian Antiquities, vol ii. p. 234 



MISCELLANSOtIS POEMS. 3(» 




An urn, which held the dust of one 


The graves wherein our mighty men 


Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 


Had i^st, unviolated then. 




A sword, whose work was ptoudly done 






Between our mountains and the sea. 


Still green it waves ! as when the heart! 
Was sacred through the land ; 




And these are treasures ! — undismayed, 


And fearless was the banquet's mirth, 




Still for their suffering land we trust, 


And free the minstrel's hand ; 




Wherein the past its fame hath laid 


And guests, with s'*ining myrtle crowned, 




With freedom's sword and valor's dust. 


Sent the^ wreathed lyre and wine cup 
round. 




THE MYRTLE BOUGH. 


Still green ! as when on holy ground 
The tyrant's blood was poured : 




Still green, along our sunny shore. 


Forget ye not what garlands bound 




The flowering myrtle waves, 


The young deliverer's sword ! 




As when its fragrant boughs of yore 


Though earth may shroud Harmodius now» 




Were offered on the graves — 


We still have sword and myrtle bough. 




MISCELLANE 


OUS POEMS. 




OS A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF 


And rose, and made their spirits fel. 




GRUTLI. 


Through all the mountain land. 




Whence art thou, flower ? From holy ground, 


Then welcome, Grutli's free-born flower ! 




WTicre freedom's foot hath been ! 


Even in thy pale decay 




Yet bugle blast or trumpet sound 


There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, 




Ne'er shook that solemn scene. 


• Which all high thoughts obey. 




Flower of a noble field ! thy birth 


» 




Was not where spears have crossed, 


ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF 




And shivered helms have strewn the earth. 


VIRGIL. 




'Midst banners won and lost. 


And was thy home, pale, withered thing, 




But where the sunny hues and showers 


Beneath the rich blue southern sky ? 




Unto thy cup were given, 


Wert thoti a nursling of the spring. 




There met high hearts at midnight hours, 


The winds and suns of glorious Italy ? 




Pure hand* -vor^ raised to Heaven ; 


Those suns in golden light e'en now 




'Ani vowi were pledged that man should roam 


Look o'er the poet's lovely grave ; 




Through every Alpine dell 


Those winds are breathing soft, but thou. 




Free as the A\-ind, the torrent's foam, 


Answering their whisper, there no more shall 




The shaft of WiUiam TeU. 


wave. 




^d prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, 


The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow 




Hallowed the pastoral sod ; 


May cluster in their purple bloom, 




And souls grew strong for battle there, 


But on th' o'crshadowing ilex bough. 




Ncr^'ed with the peace of God. 


Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb 




Before the Alps and stars they knelt, 


Thy place is void ; 0, none on earth. 




That calm devoted band, 


This crowded earth, may so remain. 


... 



804 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Save that which souls of loftiest birth 


Thou didst not seem as one to die, 


Leave when they part, their brighter home to 


With all thy young renown ! 


gain. 


— Ye saw his falchion's fiash on high, 




In the mid fight, when spears and crests went 


Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung 


down ! 


On the green stem which once was thine ; 




"When shall another strain be sung 


Slow be your march ! the field is won ! 


Like his whose dust hath made that spot a 


A dark and evil field ! 


shrine ? 


Lift from the ground my noble son. 




And bear him homewards on his bloody shield 


'IHE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 




Yes, it is ours ! — the field is won. 




A dark and evil field ! 


A FRAGMENT. 


Lift from the ground my noble son, 




And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 


Rest on your battle fields, ye brave 1 




Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, 


Let him not hear your trumpets ring, 


Your dirge be in the moaning wave — 


Swell not the battle horn ! 


We call you back no more ! 


Thoughts far too sad those notes wiU bring. 




When to the grave my glorious flower is borne ! 


0, there was mourning when ye feU, 




In your own vales a deep-toned knell, 


Speak not of victory ! — in the name 


An agonj^, a wild farewell — 


There is too much of woe ! 


But that hath long been o'er. 


Hushed be the empty voice of Eame — 




Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 


Rest with your still and solemn fame ! 




The hiUs keep record of your name, 


Speak not of victory ! — from my halls 


And never can a touch of shame 


The sunny hour is gone ! 


Darken the buried brow. 


The ancient banner on my walls 




Must sink ere long; I had but him — but 


But -we on changeful days are cast. 


one ! 


When bright names from their place fall 




fast; 


Within the dwelling of my sires 


And ye that with your glory passed, 


The hearths will soon be cold. 


We cannot mourn you now. 


With me must die the beacon fires 




That streamed at midnight from the mountain 


' 


hold. 






ENGLAND'S DEAD. 


And let them fade, since this must be. 




My lovely and my brave ! 


Son of the Ocean Isle ! 


Was thy bright blood poured fcrth for me ? 


Where sleep your mighty dead ? 


4j.d is there but for stately youth a grave ? 


Show me what high and stately pile 




Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 


ypeak to me once again, my boy ! 




Wilt thou not hear my call ? 


Go, stranger ! track the deep — 


Thou wcrt so full of life and joy, 


Free, free the white sail spread ! 


I had not dreamt of this — that thou couldst 


Wave may not foam, nor Avild wind sweep, 


faU! 


Where rr^* not England's dead. 


Thy mother watches from the steep 


On Egypt's burning plains, 


For thy returning plume ; 


By the pjTamid o'erswayed, 


How shall I tell her that thy sleep 


With fearful power the noonday reigns, 


b of the silent house, th' untimely tomb ? 


And the palm trees yield no shade ; - 







^J, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



305 



But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far bj' Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar ; — 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone^ — 
There slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent floods 
The Western wilds among, 
And frf.8, in green Columbia's woods. 
The hunter's bow is strung; — 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ?- 
There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain storms rise high 
In the snowy Pjrrenees, 
And toss the pine boughs through the slty 
Like rose leaves on the breeze ; — 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour. 
When round the ship the ice fields close, 
And the northern night clouds lower ; - 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold blue desert spread ! 
Thsir course with mast a^d flag is done, — 
Even there sleep England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles. 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave ? 

Go, stranger ! track the deep — 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 
ii9 



THE MEETING OF THE BaEDS. 

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH 
BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822. 

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were 
anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some con- 
spicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon ; 
or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, 
" in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The 
places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle 
of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding 
bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of 
assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon 
this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening 
of a Oorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their 
nni-colored robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, with- 
in the circle of federation. — See Owen's Travslation of tht 
Heroic Elegies vf Llywarch Hen.] 

WuERE met our bards of old ? — the glorious 

throng, 
They of the mountain and the battle song ? 
They met — O, not in kingly hall or bower. 
But where wild Nature girt herself with power : 
They met where streams flashed bright from 

rocky caves ; 
They met where woods made m.oan o'er war- 
riors' graves, 
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast. 
And 'midst th' eternal clifl's, whose strength defied 
The crested Roman, m his hour of pri le ; 
And where the Carnedd,' on its lonely hill. 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech* 

frowned, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs 
round. 

There thronged th' inspired of yore — on 

plain or height, 
I?i the siai's face, beneath the eye of light. 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head, 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 
Well might their laj^s be lofty ! — soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught. 
Well might bold freedom's soul pen-ade tha 

strains 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains, 
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament. 
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high • 
'Twas from the battle fields of days gone by, 

1 Carnedd, a stone barrow, or cairn. 

2 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The wor« 
means a stone of covenant 



106 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest, 
With their good swords, \ipon the mountain's 

breast ; 
And fi-om the -watchtowers on the heij^hts of 

snow, 
Severed by clond and storm from all below ; 
And the turf mounds,' once girt by ruddy spears. 
And the rock altars of departed years. 
~ Thence deeply mingling with the torrent's 

roar, 
The winds a thousand, ■^^^ld responses bore ; 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 
On all her hills awakening to rejoice. 
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 
'Midst the store circles hallowed thus of old ; 
Not where great Nature's majesty and might 
First broke all glorious on our infant sight ; 
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and 

brave, 
Not by the mountain llyn,^ the ocean wave, 
In these late days we meet — dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri's ^ cliifs resound with harps no more ! 

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its caverned urn. 
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) 
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free. 
Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! 
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts 

belong. 
Oar dreams are haunted by thy voice of song ! 
Nor yield our souls one patriot feeling less 
To the green memory of thy loveliness. 
Than theirs, whose harp notes pealed from every 

height. 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light ! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING.* 

I COME, I come ! ye have called me long — 

I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 

1 The ancient British '■-hiefs frequently harangued their 
Wlowers from small artificial inuuuts of turf. — PennauU 
* Llyn, a lake or pool. 
« Ertjri, Snowdon. 
Origiitallf publislied in the J^cw Monthly Magazine. 



Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers, 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free; 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath 
been. -v 

I have sent through the wood paths a glowing 

sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky ; 
From the night bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the 

chain. 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of Avavcs ! 

Come forth, ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyuua 

lay," 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay 

Away from the d-wclUngs of care-worn men. 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ' 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth. 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth : 
Their light stems thrill to the wildwood strain^ 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye .net me last ! 
There is something bright from your feature* 
passed \ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



301 



Vhere is that come over your brow and eye 
Which speaks of a -world -where the flowers must 
die! 
-Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet ; 
O, "what have you looked on since last we met ? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright. 
Which tossed in the breeze Avith a play of light ; 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's 
head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rang through the sap- 
phire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone ? is their mirth from the moun- 
tains passed ? 

Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you 

now — 
\re have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 
They are gone from amongst you in silence 

do-wn! 

They are gone from amongst y j-ji , the young and 

fair, 
Ye have lost the gleara rf thoij rahining hair ! 
But I know of a land wherf there falls no 

blight — 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may 

dwell, 
[ tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne — 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the 

corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore — 
Ye are marked by care, yo are mine no more ; 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, 

farewell ! 



[" ' The Voice of Spring,' perhaps the best known and 
ke** k ved of al' Mrs. Heraans's lyrics, was written early in 



tlie year 18-33 ; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend 
wild had lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement 
— ' " The Voice of Sprinj; " expresses some pecculiar feek 
ings of my own. Altlioiiph my life has yet been unvisitea 
by any aftliitiiin so deeply impressive, in all ils circuiii 
stances, as tlie tine you have been called upon to sustain, 
yet 1 cannot but feel every year, with the return of ths 
violet, how much the shadows of my mind iiave deepened 
since its last appearance ; and to me tlie spring, with all its 
joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness ratbel 
than mirth. I \Uiuk the most delightful poetry I know upon 
the tsubjcct of this season, is contained in the worlcs u( 
Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps ac 
quainted ; but the feelings he expresses are of a very difTer- 
rent character from those I have described to you, seeminR 
all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.' 

" Tills indefinable feeling of languor and depression, pro- 
duced by the influence of spring, will be well understood 
by many a gentle heart. Never do the 

' Fond strange yearnings from the soul's deep cell 
Gush for tlie faoes we no more shall see,' 

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external natur« 
breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and 
j'lyous things around us, we are haunted with images ol 
death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong 
than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the 
great gulf that divides us from those who are now ' gone 
down in silence.' Some unforgotten voice is ever whisper 
ing — 'And I too in Arcadia!' We remember how we 
were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant simshine ; 
and these things can charm us no longer, ' because tlieij are 
not.' The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrar)' — 
its falling leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bring 
ing mure home to us the sense of 6ur own mortality, idet- 
tilies us more closely with those who are gone before, and 
the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. 
We are impressed with a more per\'ading conviction that 
' we shall go to them ; ' while, in spring, every thing seems 
mournfully to echo, ' they will not return to us ! ' 

" These peculiar associations may be traced in many of 
Mrs. Hemans's writings, deepening with the mfluen"e of 
years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in 
the poem called ' Breathings of Spring.' And when it ia 
remembered that it was at this season her own earth''/ 
course was finished, the following passage from a letter, 
written in the month of May, some years after the one lasl 
quoted, cannot be read without emotion : — ' Poor A. H. 13 
to be buried to-morrow. With ths bright sunshine laughing 
around, it seems more sad to think id' ; yet, if I could choose 
when I would wish to die, it should be in spring — the in- 
fluence (kf that season is so strangely depressing to my heart 
and frajTic.' " — jMoiiiiiir, pp. 6-^-86. 

" ' The Voice of Spring,' one of the first of what mity b« 
called Mrs. Hemans's fanciful lyrics, which presently be- 
came as familiar as the music of some popular composei 
when brought to our do<irs by wandering minstrels." — 
Chorlf.y's Memorials, vol. i. p. 113. 

"But it is time Mrs. Hemans's poetry were allowed to 
speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have 
really been as nnich puzzled as a child gathering flowers in 
a lovely garden — now attracted by a rose — straightway 
allured by a lily — now tempted by a stately tulip — and 
again unsettled by a breathing violet, or well-attired wood< 
bine.' We do think, however, that tliT. ' Voice of Spring 
is the pride of Mrs. H.'s parterre — the rose of her poetij ' 
— (A. A. Watts.) — Literary Magnet, 1826 1 



BOS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ELYSIUM. 



[" In tlie Elysium of the anciente, we find none but he- 
roes and persons who had either been fortunate or distin- 
guished on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves 
and lower clisses — that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and 
Innocence — were banished to the infernal regions." — 
Ohmbaubjiianp, Oenie du Christianisme.] 

Pair wort thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery- 
streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night. 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but th^j golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep ^olian sound went by 
From fountain voices in their secret glades. 
And low reed whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh. 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 

breath, 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of 
death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that 'midst the woods made harmony, 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreains and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From th" bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread, 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel ? 
Called from the dim procession of the dead, 
Who 'midst the shadowy amaranth bowers 
might dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine, at nations' feasts went 
round 1 



They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty soundi 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! — and 

become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 



They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, 

had sought 
The soul's far birthplace — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died. 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born 'midst the olive woods by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die. 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face. 

A dim and vacant place 
In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths 

for these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ; 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were 

spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright 

shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round hira 

fell. 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of 

years, 
As embers in a burial urn compressed ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered " Liberty I 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature tc Decay, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



30S 



Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert 

thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's 

brow ? 

Thou hadst no home, green land !' 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
A.nd all the lovely thoughts and dreams un- 
known. 
Which in its clear eye shone 
'.ike spring's first wakening ! but that light was 

past — 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ? 

Not where thy soft winds played. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, 

fade! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing 
love ! ' 



■ THE FUNERAL GENIUS, 

AN ANCIENT STATUE. 

" Debout, couronne de fleurs, les bras Aleves et pos^s sur 
ea tgte, et le dos appuye centre un pin, ce genie semble ex- 
primer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs 
des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." — 
ViscoSTi, Description des Antiques du Musee Royal. 

I'flou shouldst be looked on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer air. 
Not by the torchfire wavering on the walls — 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou ! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. 
Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though 
done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As 
Driginally written, the two following stanzas concluded the 
pi pee : — 

For the most loved are they 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice 
In regal halle I The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their rteps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 



Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
Were crowned of old, with pale spring flowera 

like these : 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
And the pine boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom, 
Which of the grove seems breathing, not the tomb 

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought. 
And laid thy head against the forest tree, 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close. 
On the wood violets lulled to deep repose. 

They feared not death ! — yet who shaU say hia 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ■' 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear ? 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee ? Did some 

fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest ; 

— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy. 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed ; 
And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white rose tinge ? 

O, happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 

— Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful .heart. 

But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe. 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men poured out their gladdening spirit'! 

flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours ! 



And the world knows not then, 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled t 
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath ipr*ad. 

The long-remembered dead 1 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwelt — 
Fade, fade away, thou shore of anpbodel I 



310 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs 

arrayed. 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the 

shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts ? — do we not intrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead, 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust ? 
Why should loe dwell on that which lies be- 
neath. 
When living light hath touched the brow of 
death ? 



THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. 

FROM A PAINTIirO BY WILLIAMS. 

And there they sleep ! — the men who stood 
In arms before th' exulting sun. 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood, 
And taught the earth how freedom might be 
won. 

They sleep ! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hushed and gone ; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled — 
Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on. 

They sleep — and seems not all around 
As hallowed unto glory's tomb ? 
Silence is on the battle ground. 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height, 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud ; 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering 
shroud. 

And thou, pale Night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves. 
Nor look they down on shining streams. 
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves. 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep. 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep. 
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines : 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste. 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
out by his dust, amidst the solitude. 



And be it thus ! — What slaves shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle plains? 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead 
When their bright Land sits weeping o'er hei 
chains. \ 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 
And where the Spartan sword flashed high, 
And whore the psean strains were sung, 
From year to year swelled on by liberty ; 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard. 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 
Save of the leader's charging word. 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up throvgl» 
heaven ! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree,' 
No harvest o'er your war field wave, 
Till rushing winds proclaim, The land is ftet. ' 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

There have been bright and glorious pageants 

here. 
Where now gray stones and moss-grown col- 
umns lie ; 
There have been words which earth grew pale 

to hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambera 

nigh : 
There have been voices through the sunny sky» 
And the pine woods, their choral hymn notes 

sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody 
With incense clouds around the temple blending, 
And throngs with laurel boughs before the altai 
bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the Day-god's now forsaken throne 
Thunders have pealed along the rock defiles. 
When the far-echoing battle horn made known 
That foes were on their way ! The deep wind'? 

moan 
Hath chilled th' invader's heart with secret fear 
And from the Sibyl grottoes, wild and lone, 

1 A single tree appears In Mr. Williams's impresaivd 
picture. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3U 



Btorms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career, 
From his bold hand have struck the banner 

and the spear. 

The shrine hath sunk ! — but thou unchanged 

art there ! 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with 

dreams ! 
Urthanged — and rising through the radiant air, 
With th} dark waving pin-es, and flashing 

streams. 
And all thy founts of song ! '} heir bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze, 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder 

days ! 

Away, vain fantasies ! — doth less of power 
DweU round thy summit, or thy clifl's invest. 
Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy 

breast ? 
— Lift through the free blue heavens thine ar- 
rowy crest ! 
Lot the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their fuU chords: — but sUent be the 

strain ! 
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eter- 
nal's reign ! ' 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 
T^at shake the startled earth ? When wakes the 

foe 
While the friend sleeps ? When falls the trai- 
tor's blow r 
When are puud sceptres riven, 
BSgh hopes o'erthrown ? — It is when lands re- 
joice. 
When cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
W^n mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas 

a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

1 This, with the preceding, and several of the following 
gi*ce3, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed ere yet the song was done.. 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned ; 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer melody, 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung and bright libationi 

poured ! 
When through the streets flashed out th' aven- 
ging sword. 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles 
bound ! ^ 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 
Rich in her Sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendor shed 
0"er the proud march ; a king in chains was 

led; 
A stately victor, crowned and robed, came last.' 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 
Stirred the warm air, and glistened round hia 
way 
As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypres.^ 

hung. 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pUe, 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's 

foam 
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose garlands decked a glittering 
throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! But strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds by no mortal made,^ 

2 The sword of Harmodius. 

8 Paulus jEmilius, one of whose sons died a few days 
before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the con- 
quest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, wa» 
led in chains, 

4 See the description given by Plutarch, in his life o* 



812 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And passed — and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city,' with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive 
bowers, 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had filled its halls of revelry. 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower. 
And who could tell the buried city's place r 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving. 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! — 
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread. 
Midst the rock altars of the warrior dead ; ' 

And ancient battle rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; — 

But ere the giant fane 

Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even. 

Hushed were the bards, and in the face of heaven. 
O'er that old burial plain. 

Flashed the keen Saxon dagger ! — blood was 
streaming 

Where late the mead cup to the sun was gleam- 
ing, 

And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in 
vain — 

Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of 
Alexandria, the night before Antony's death. 

1 Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the in- 
babitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower 
of ashes .Thich overwhelmed the city descended. 

2 Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erect- 
ed to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king ; and 
by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre 
of British chiefs here alluded to. 



For they returned no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part 

And on the rushy floor, 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walla 
The high wood fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was 
o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! The bridal rose. 

And the rich myrtle's flower. 
Have veiled the sword ! Red wines have spar- 
kled fast 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed 
With fatal perfume through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song. 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
O, far too daring seems the joy of earth. 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death ! 

[" ' The Festal Hour ' certainly appears to us to be ono 
of the noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English 
language — happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery 
and illustration." — Dr. Moreheaditj Constable's Magaiint 
Sept. 1823.] 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MOR- 
GARTEN. 

[" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke 
Leopold of Austria, with a formidable aruiy. It is well at- 
tested that this prince repeatedly declared he * would tram- 
ple the audacious rustics under his feet ; ' and that he had 
procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of bind- 
ing their chiefs, and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October, 1315, dawned. Tiie sun darted its 
first rays on the shields and armor of the advancing host ; 
and this being the first army ever known to have attempted 
the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line 
with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cav- 
alry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space 
between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The 
fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sud- 
den shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and atones among 
the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, 
perceiving the impression made by this attack, rut^hed down 
in close array, and fell upon the flank of t!ie disordered 
column. With massy clubs they dashed ht ple'^s the armor 
of the enemy, and dealt their blows ar.d 'jtinists with long 
pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted o.f no evolu 
tions, and a slight frost having irjurftd 'he road, the horses 
were impeded in all their motion's ; many leaped into the 
lake J all were startled ; and at las* the whole column gave 
way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry ; and these 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



31>i 



last, as the nature of the country did not allow them to open 
their files, were run over by the fugitives, and many of them 
trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leo- 
pold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, who 
led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw 
him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed." — 
Plakta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

The -wine month ' shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes clustering hung, 
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime, 
Than the vintage music, rung ! 

A sound through vaulted cave, 
A sound through echoing glen. 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
'Twas the tread of steel-girc men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 

And through the forest glooms 
Plashed helmets to the day ; 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch boughs in their play. 

In Hash's * wilds there was gleaming steel 

As the host of the Austrian passed ; 
And the Schreckhorn's ' rocks with a savage peal 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righi snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp domains. 

The herdsman's arm is strong. 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rang the while. 
But on the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood, 
There was stillness as of night 

When storms at distance brood. 

1 Wine month, the German name for October. 
* Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 
» Schrechhom, the peak of terror, a mountain in the can- 
ton of Borno 

40 



There was stillness as of deep, dead night, 

And a pause — but not of fear, 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood, 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried power, 

All helmed and mail arrayed, 
iVnd their steps had sounds hke a thundeJ 
shower 
In the rustling forest shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemmed in by cHfF and flood. 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down 

Their startled foes among. 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — > 
O, the herdsman's arm is strong ! — 
They came like lauwine * hurled 
From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the snowy 
world. 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir woods crashed on the mountain side, 

And the Switzers rushed from high. 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 
Like hunters of the deer, 
They stormed the narrow dell ; 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear, 
Was the arm of WilUam TeU.* 

There was tumult in the crowded strait, 

And a cry of wUd dismay ; 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 
And the Empire's banner then. 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the sheplierd men. 
The men of the Forest Sea. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they braice. 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war horse dashed to the reddening lafcj 

From the reapers of the field ! 



4 Lauwine, the Swiss name for the avalanrbe. 
^ William Tell's name h particularly mentioned amonfH 
the confederates at Morgarten 



L 



The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

0, the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed 

When the Austrian turned to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude. 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen. 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tUls 

Went back from the battle toil. 
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep-green hills. 
All burdened with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 

On the soaring Alps that night, 

When children sprang to greet their sires 

From the wild Morgarten fight. 



ODE 

ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF POETUGAL, 
AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA. 

TBAlfSLATBD FROM THE SPAKISH OF HERKEEA. 

[Ferdinand de Hebrera, surnamed the Divine, was a 
Spanish poet who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is 
Btill considered by the Castilians as one of their classic wri- 
ters. He aimed at the introduction of a new style into 
Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sus- 
tained majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of 
expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent 
study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone 
of national pride maintained throughout, and justified in- 
deed by tlie nature of the subjects to which some of these 
productions are devoted. This last characteristic is blended 
with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather 
exalts tlian tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in 
the high destinies of his country. Spain is to him what 
Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of her 
palm trees — the chosen and favored land, whose people, 
Bevered from all others by the purity and devotedness of 
their faith, are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of 
Heaven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is 
powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the Battle 
of Lepanto. 

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of 
the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compo- 
litions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed 
through the medium of the following translation.] 

" Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido," etc. 

A VOICE of woe, a murmur of lament, 
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire ; 
Let such record the day, the day of wail 
For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent ! 



She who hath seen her power, her fnrae expire, 
And mourns them in the dust, discrowned and 
pale, 

And let the awful tale 
With grief and horror every realm o'ersLade, 

From Afric's burning main 
To the far sea, in other hues arrayed, 
And the red limits of the Orient's reign. 
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold 
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold. 

Alas ! for those that in embattled power, 
And vain array of chariots and of horse, 
desert Libya ! sought thy fatal coast ! 
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source 
Of might and glory, but in earthly force. 
Making the strength of multitudes their boast, 

A flushed and crested host, 
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trod 
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquered land 
Given for the spoil ; nor raised their eyes to God : 
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand, 
Their sole support ; — and heavily and prone 
They fell — the car, the steed, the rider, all 
o'er thrown ! 

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, 
Which to deep solitude and tears consigned 
The peopled realm, the realm, of joy and 

mirth. 
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow 
Announced the morn — it seemed as nature 

pined. 
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam's birth ; 

While, startling the pale earth, 
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud 

With visitation dread. 
Their crests th' Eternal, in his anger, bowed, 
And raised barbarian nations o'er their head, 
Th' inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, 
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncon- 
trolled. 

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword 

Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand, 

Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the 

crown 
Of thy fair knighthood ; and the insatiate horde, 
Not with thy life content, O ruined land ! 
Sad Lusitania ! even thy bright renown 

Defaced and trampled down ; 
And scattered, rushing as a torrent flood, 
Thy pomp of arms and banners ; — till the sandf 
Became a lake of blood — thy noblest blood ! 
The plain a mountain of thy slaughtered baiidn 



Btrength on thy foes, resistless might was shed ; 
On thy devoted sons — amaze, and shame, and 
dread. 

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, 
The warrior men, th' invincible, the famed. 
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, 
Wh(jse spoils were empires ? — They that in 

their might 
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, 
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day 

To desolation's sway, 
Making the cities of imperial name 

E'en as the desert place ? 
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame ? 
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race 
In one brief hour ? Is this their valor's doom. 
On distant shores to fall, and find not e'en a 

tomb ? 

Once were they, in their splendor and their pride, 

As an imperial cedar on the brow 

Of the great Lebanon ! It rose, arrayed 

In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide 

Majestic branches, leaving far below 

All children of the forest. To its shade 

The waters tribute paid, 
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there 
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, 
And the wild mountain creatures made their lair 
Beneath ; and nations by its canopy 



Were shadowed o'er. Supreme it stood.^ and ne'ei 
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair. 

But all elated, on its verdant stem. 
Confiding solely in its regal height, 
It soared presumptuous, as for empire born ; 
And God for this removed its diadem, 
And cast it from its regions of delight, 
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn. 

By the deep roots uptorn ! 
And lo ! encumbering the lone hills it lay, 
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state ; 
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, 
Who in its ample shade had found so late 
Their bower of rest ; and nature's savage race 
'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-jdace. 

But thou, base Libya ! thou whose arid sand 
Hath been a kingdom's death bed, where one fata 
Closed her bright life and her majestic fam" - 
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand 
Hath fallen the victory, be not thou elate ! 
Boast not thyself, though thine that day ol 
shame. 

Unworthy of a name ! 
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance. 
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry. 

Pierced by his searching lance. 
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, 
And thine aff'righted streams to ocean's flood 
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



A DKAMATIC FEAGMENT. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



SaBASTIAIT. 

Gonzalez, hia friead. 

Scene I. — The Sea Shore near Lisbon. 

Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor. 

Seb. With what young life and fragrance in 
its breath 
My native air salutes me ! From the groves 
Of citron, and the mountains of the vine, 
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on 
In power and freedom o'er its golden sands, 
Fair stream, my Tajo ! youth, with all its glow 



Zamor, a young Arab. 
Sylteira. 

And pride of feeling, through my soul and fram 
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves 
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Swee< 

land. 
My own, my fathers' land, of sunny skies 
And orange bowers ! — O, is it not a dream 
That thus I tread thy soil ? Or do I wake 
From a dark dream but now ! Gonzalez, say 
Doth it not bring the flush of early life 
Back on th' awakening spirit, thus to eaze 



r- 



316 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Jn the far-sweeping river, and the shades 
Which, in their undulating motion, speak 
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born, 
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands 
Of the lone desert ? Time and toil must needs 
Have changed our mien ; but this, our blessed 

land, 
Hath gained but richer beauty since we bade 
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus ? 
Thy brow is clouded. 

Gon. To mine eye the scene 
Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, 
A hue of desolation ; and the calm. 
The solitude and silence which pervade 
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less 
To peace than sadness ! We have proudly stood 
Even on this shore, beside th' Atlantic wave. 
When it hath looked not thus. 

Seb. Ay, now thy soul 
Is in the past ! O, no ! it looked not thus 
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails. 
And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour, 
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst 
Again upon my vision ! I behold 
The stately barks, the arming, the array, 
The crests, the banners of my chivalry, 
Swayed by the sea breeze till their motion showed 
Like j oyous life ! How the proud billows foamed ! 
And the oars flashed like lightnings of the deep. 
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, 
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide 
The valiant unto fame ! Ay, the blue heaven 
Seemed for that noble scene a canopy 
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar 
To peals of warlike sound ! My gallant bands ! 
Where are you now ? 

Gon. Bid the wide desert tell 
Where sleep its dead ! To mightier hosts than 

them 
Hath it lent graves ere now ; and on its breast 
Is room for nations yet ! 

Seb. It cannot be 
That all have perished ! Many a noble man. 
Made captive on that war field, may have burst 
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting 

hour, 
Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught 
To the parched lip of fever, with a thought 
So darkly sad ! 

Go7i. O, never, never cast 
That deep remembrance from you ! When once 

more 
Your place is 'midst earth's rulers, let it dwell 
Around you, as the shadow of your throne. 
Wherein the land may rest. My king ! this hour 



(Solemn as that which to the voyager's eye, 
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold 
A new and boundless world) may haply be 
The last in which the courage and the power 
Of truth's high voice may reach you. Who 

may stand 
As man to man, as friend to friend, before 
Th' ancestral throne of monarchs ? Or perchance 
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance. 
Henceforth may wait us here ! But howsoe'er 
This be, the lessons now from sufferings past 
Befit all time, aU change. O, by the blood, 
The free, the generous blood of Portugal, 
Shed on the sands of Afric — by the names 
Which, with their centuries of high renown. 
There died, extinct forever — let not those 
Who stood in hope and glory at our side 
Here, on this very sea beach, whence they passed 
To fall, and leave no trophy — let them not 
Be soon, be e'er forgotten ! for their fate 
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness. 
Whence power might well learn wisdom ! 

Seb. Thinkst thou, then. 
That years of sufferance and captivity. 
Such as have bowed down eagle hearts ere now, 
And made high energies their spoil, have passed 
So lightly o'er my spirit ? It is not thus ! 
The things thou wouldst recall are not of those 
To be forgotten ! But my heart hath still 
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, 
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze 
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gon- 
zalez ! 
Thou'rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield 
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour 
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud 

helms 
Cleft, and strong breastplates shivered. Thou 

art one 
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude 
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile 
The long slow march beneath the burning noon 
With lofty patience ; but for those quick bursts, 
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast 
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights 
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound 
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose 

wing 
Wanders in chainless joy ; for things like these 
Thou hast no sympathies ! And thou, my Zamor, 
Art wrapped in thought ! I welcome thee to this, 
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not 
A goodly heritage ? 

Zam. The land is fair ; 
But he, the archer of the wilderness, 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAli. 



si? 



Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade 
His tents are scattered, and his camels rest ; 
And therefore is he sad ! 

Seb. Thou must not pine 
With that sick yearning of th' impatient heart, 
Which makes the exile's life one fevered dream 
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away, 
And faces wearing the familiar hues 
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known 
Too much of this, and would not see another 
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee. 
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark 
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset's glow. 
Lias within signal reach. If it be thus. 
Then fare thee well — farewell, thou brave, and 

true, 
And generous friend ! How often is our path 
Crossed by some being whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course 
Leads down another current, nevermore 
To blend with ours I Yet far within our souls, 
Amidst the rushing of the busy world, 
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet 
Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor ! 
Shalt thou be long remembered. 

Zam. By the fame 
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes 
Tell round the desert's watchfire, at the hour 
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, 
I will not leave thee ! 'Twas in such an hour 
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay 
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within 
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then. 
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole 
Soft on the sleeper ? Whose keen dart transfixed 
The monarch of the solitudes ? I woke, 
And saw thv javelin crimsoned with his blood, 
Thou, my deliverer ! and my heart e'en then 
Called thee its brother. 

Seb. For that gift of life 
With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self, 
Thou hast repaid me well. 

Zam. Then bid me not 
Forsake thee ! Though my father's tents may 

rise 
At times upon my spirit, yet my home 
Shall be amidst thy mountains, prince ! and thou 
Shall be my chief, until I see thee robed 
With all thy power. When thou canst need no 

more 
Thine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm. 
From the green regions of the setting sun 
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek 
His Orient wilds again. 

Seb. B< near me still. 



And ever, O my warrior ! I shall stand 
Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king. 
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp 
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place 
Then at my side. When doth a monarch ceasi 
To need true hearts, bold hands ? Not in tha 

field 
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet 
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will no! 

part. 
Gon. Be all thy friends thus faithful, for e'en 

yet 
They may be fiercely tried. 

Seb. I doubt them not. 
Even now my heart beats high to meet then 

welcome. 
Let us away ! 

Gon. Yet hear once more, my liege. 
The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine 
Returning, finds not e'en his peasant home 
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved 

face, 
Which made the sunlight of his lowly board, 
Is touched by sickness ; some familiar voice 
Greets him no more ; and shall not fate and time 
Have done their work, since last we parted hence, 
Upon an empire ? Ay, within those years, 
Hearts from their ancient worship have fallen off, 
And bowed before new stars ; high names hav« 

sunk 
From their supremacy of place, and others 
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty 

sounds 
At which thrones tremble. O, be slow to trust 
E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to 

seem 
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depthi 
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine 
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by 
Leaving earth's face unchanged. 
Seb. Whence didst thou learn 
The cold distrust which casts «o deep a shadow 
O'er a most noble nature? 

Goii. Life hath been 
My stern and only teacher. I have known. 
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most 
In human hearts. O, yet a while tame down 
That royal spirit, till the hour be come 
When it may burst its bondage ! On thy brow 
Tlio suns of burning climes have set their seal, 
And toil, and years, and perils have not passed 
O'er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye. 
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that chancre 
The mask beneath whose shelter thou mayst Tea's 
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own. 



318 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Seb. Am I thus changed 
From all I was ? And yet it needs must be, 
Since e'en my soul hath caught another hue 
From its long sufferings. Did I not array 
The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry, 
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour 
Destruction on the Moslem ? I return, 
And as a fearless and a trusted friend, 
Bring, from the realms of my captivity, 
An Arab of the desert ! — But the sun 
Hath Slink below th' Atlantic. Let us hence — 
Gonzalez, fear me not. lExeicnt. 

Scene II. — A Street in Lisbon illuminated. 
Many Citizens. 

\st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien. 
With Ijer far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps 
Shining from all her marble palaces. 
Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest 

lattice 
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling 

waves 
Fling back the light ! 

'2d Cit. Ay, 'tis a gallant show ; 
And one which serves, like others, to conceal 
Things which must not be told. 

3rf Cit. What wouldst thou say ? 

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous 
times like these. 
Be said with safety. Hast thou looked within 
Those stately palaces ? Were they but peopled 
With the high race of warlike nobles, once 
Their princely lords, think'st thou, good friend, 

that now 
They would be glittering with this hollow pomp, 
To greet a conqueror's entrance ? 

Sc/ Cit. Thou say'st well. 
None but a land forsaken of its chiefs 
Had been so lost and won. 

Ath Cit. The lot is cast ; 
We have but to yield. Hush ! for some stran- 
gers come : 
Now, friends, beware. 

\st Cit. Did the king pass this way 
At morning, with his train ? 

2d Cit. Ay : saw you not 
Tho long and lich procession ? 

Sebastian enters with Gonzalez and Zamoh. 

Seb. {to Gon.) This should be 
The night of some high festival. E'en thus 
My royal city to the skies sent up. 
From her illumined fanes and towers, a voice 
Of gladness, -welcoming our first return 



From Afric's coast. Speak ci-iou, Gonzaie>i ! ash 
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart 
Deep feelings rush, so mingling and bo fast, 
My voice perchance might tremble. 

Gon. Citizen, 
What festal night is this, that all yrur streets 
Are thronged and glittering thuo ? 

\st Cit. Hast thou not heard 
Of the king's entry, ia triumph&l j omp, 
This very morn ? 

Gon. The king ! triumphal pomj) ! — 
Thy words are dark. 

Seb. Speak yet again ; mine ears 
Ring with strange sounds. Again ! 

\st Cit. I said, the king, 
Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, 
This morning entered with a conqueror's traia 
Our city's royal palace ; and for this 
We hold our festival. 

Seb. {in a Imo voice.') Thou said'st — the king! 
His name ? — I heard it not. 

\st Cit. Philip of Spain. 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! We slumbei tiU aroused 
By th' earthquake's bursting shock. Hath there 

not fallen 
A sudden darkness ? All things Sbem to float 
Obscurely round me. Now 'tis past. The streets 
Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench those 

lamps ; 
They glare upon me till my very brain 
Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare ye 

thus 
Light up your Shrines for him f 

Gon. Away, away ! 
This is no time, no scene 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! 
How name ye this fair land? Why, is it not 
The free, the chivalrous Portugal ? — the land 
By the proud ransom of heroic blood 
Won from the Moor of old ? Did that red stream 
Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current 
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, 
Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps. 
Might be a kingdom's barrier ? 

2d Cit. That high blood 
Which should have been our strength, profusely 

shed 
By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains 
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt 
Hath brought this ruin down. 

Seb. Must this be heard, 
And borne, and unchastised ? Man, dar'st thou 

stand 
Before me face to face, and thus arraign 
Thy sovereign i 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



3 IS 



Zam. (aside to Seb.) Shall I lift the sword, my 
prince, 
Against thy foes ? 

Gon. Be still — or all is lost. 
2d Cit. I dare speak that which all men think 
and know. 
'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life. 
And power, and treasure, that we owe these 
bonds. 
Zd Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new 
monarch rule 
The weary land in peace ! But who art thou ? 
Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that 

these things, 
Known to all nations, should be new to thee ? 
Seh. (wildly.) I come from regions where the 
cities lie 
Tn ruins, not in chains ! 

[Exit toith Gonzalez and Zamor. 
2d Cit. He wears the mien 
Of one that hath commanded ; yet his looks 
And words were strangely wild. 
1st Cit. Marked you his fierce 
And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke 
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's 

name 
Became our theme ? 

2d Cit. Trust me, there's more in this 
Than may be lightly said. These are no times 
To breathe men's thoughts i' the open face of 

heaven 
And car of multitudes. They that would speak 
Of monarchs and their deeds should keep within 
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence ; and 

then 
We'll commune of this stranger. 

Scene III. — The Portico of a Palace. 
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamok. 

Seb. Withstand me not ! I tell thee that my 
soul. 
With all its passionate energies, is roused 
Unto that fearful strength which must have way, 
E'en like the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation. 

Gon. But they wait 
That hour in silence. O, be calm a while — 
Thine is not come. My king 

Seb. I am no king, 
While in the very palace of my sires, 
^y, whore mine eyes first drank the glorious 

light. 
Where my soul'o thrilling echoes first awoke 
To the his;h soimd of earth's immortal names. 



Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king 
Until I cast him thence. 

Zam. Shall not thy voice 
Be as a trumpet to th' awak'ning land ? 
Will not the bright swords flash like sunburstf 

forth. 
When the brave hear their chief? 

Gon. Peace, Zamor ! peace ! 
Child of the desert, what hast thou to dc 
With the calm hour of counsel ? 

Monarch, pausu. 
A kingdom's destiny should not bo the sport 
Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time 
When men, in very weariness of heart 
And careless desolation, tamed to yield 
By misery strong as death, will lay their souls 
E'en at the conqueror's feet — as nature sinks. 
After long torture, into cold, and dull, 
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an houi 
Of fierce atonement ? Ay, the slumberer wakes 
With gathered strength and vengeance ; and tho 

sense 
And the remembrance of his agonies 
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path 
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens 
Take off" its interdict. Wait, then, the hour 
Of that high impulse. 

Seb. Is it not the sun 
Whose radiant bursting through th' embattlea 

clouds 
Doth make it morn ? The hour of which thou 

speak'st. 
Itself, with all its glory, is the work 
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid 
The sullen shades disperse. Away ! — e'en n' -v 
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true 
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this 
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, friend 
Sylveira ? 

Gon. Ay, its glittering lamps too well 
Illume the stately vestibule to leave 
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever loved 
Such pageantries. 

Seb. His dwelling thus adorned 
On such a night ! Yet will I seek him here. 
He must be faithful, and to him the first 
My tale shall be revealed. A sudden chill 
Falls on my heart ; and yet I will not -wrong 
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been 
Linked all too closely with mine inmost soul. 
And what have I to lose ? 

Gon. Is their blood nought 
Who without hope will follow where thou lead's^ 
E'en unto death? 

S(ib. Was that » brave mau s voice i 



Warrior and friend ! how long, then, hast thou 

learned 
Id hold thy blood thus dear ? 

Gon. Of mine, mine own, 
rhink'st thou I spoke ? When all is shed for 

thee 
Thou'lt know me better. 

&cb. (^mtering the palace.) For a while, fare- 
well. [Exit. 
Gon. Thus princes lead men's hearts. Come, 
follow me ; 
And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor ! 
There will I bid thee welcome. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — A Hall within the Palace. 
Sebastian, Sylveira. 

Sylv. Whence art thou, stranger? — what 
wouldst thou with me ? 
Tliere is a fiery wildness in thy mien 
Startling and almost fearful. 

Seb. From the stern, 
And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord 
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind 
Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children 

make 
The bow and spear their law, men bear not back 
That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask 
The secrets of their spirits 'midst the stir 
Of courts and cities. I have looked on scenes 
Boundless, and strange, and ten-ible ; I have 

known 
Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope 
Of wild imagination ; and these things 
Have stamped me with their impress. Man of 

peace. 
Thou look' St on one familiar with th' extremes 
Of grandeur and of misery. 

Sylv. Stranger, speak 
Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time 
111 suits these mysteries. I must hence : to-night 
I feast the lords of Spain. 

Seb. Is that a task 
Fo" King Sebastian's friend ? 

Sylv. Sebastian's friend ! 
That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead 
Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid 
The living for their mirth? The grave sets 

bounds 
Unto all human friendship. 

Seb. On the plain 
Of Alcazar, full many a stately flower. 
The pride and crown of some high house, was laid 
Low in the dust of Afric ; but of these 
Sebastian was not one. 



Sylv. I am not skilled 
To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off 
The strange, dark scrutiny of thine eye fron 

mine. 
What mean'st thou ? — Speak ! 

Seb. Sebastian died not there. 

I read no joy in that cold, doubting mien. 
Is not thy name Sylveira ? 

Sylv. Ay. 

Seb. Why, then, 
Be glad ! I tell thee that Sebastian lives ! 
Think thou on this — he lives ! Should he re. 

turn — 
For he may yet return — and find the friend 
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust 
As should be Heaven's alone — mark'st thoum^ 

words ? — 
Should he then find this man, not girt and armed. 
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord, . 
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith, 
Holding luxurious revels with his foes. 
How wouldst thou meet his glance ? 

Sylu. As I do thine, 
Keen though it be, and proud. 

Seb. Why, thou dost quail 
Before it ! even as if the burning eye 
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul 
Through all its depths. 

Sylv. Away ! he died not there ! 
He should have died there, with the chivalry 
And strength and honor of his kingdom, lost 
By his impetuous rashness. 

Seb. This from thee ? 
Who hath given power to falsehood, that one 

gaze 
At its unmasked and withering mien should 

blight 
High souls at once ? I wake. And this from thee ? 
There are whose eyes discern the secret springs 
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold 
And gems within earth's caverns, far below 
The everlasting hills : but who hath dared 
To dream that Heaven's most awful attribute 
Invested his mortality, and to boast 
That through its inmost folds his glance could 

read 
One heart, one human heart ? Why, then, to love 
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms 
Of keenest temper and unerring aim. 
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, be- 
ware ! 
Sebastian lives ! 

Sylv. If it be so, and thou 
Art of his followers still, then bid him seek 
Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre 



To his pro-j.'l hosts, a kingdom and a home, 
For none is left him here. 

iSe6. This is to live 
An age of wisdom, in an hour ! The man 
Whose empire, as in scorn, o'erpasscdthe bounds 
E'en of the infinite deep ; whose Orient realms 
Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds 
Were brooding in their sunset m.antle still. 
O'er his majestic regions of the West ; 
This heir of far dominion shall return, 
And, in the very city of his birth. 
Shall find no home ! Ay, I will tell him this. 
And he wUl answer that the tale is false, 
False as a traitor's hollow words of love ; 
And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls 
We commime now — a friend's, a monarch's gift, 
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, 
Should yield him still a welcome. 

Sylv. Fare thee well ! 
I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words 
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance 
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. 
I mock thy wiles .0 scorn. 

Seb. Ha ! ha ' The snake 
Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning. 
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go'st not thus. 
My heart is bursting, and I will be heard. 
What ! know'st thou not my spirit was born to 

hold 
Dominion over thine ? Thou shaft not cast 
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand 

thou there, 
And tremble in the presence of thy lord ! 
Sylv. This is all madness. 
Seb. Madness ! no, I say — 
'Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, 
And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness. 
Things which come o'er her, as a sense of pain 
O' th' sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet ; 
Be still. Thou'rt used to smile and to obey ; 
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow 

fast. 
As from the fulness of a heart o'ereharged 
With loyal love. O, never, nevermore 
Let tears or smiles be trusted ! When thy king 
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise. 
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, 
And he stood o'er thee with the look of one 
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes 
Were fiUed with tears like thine. No : not like 

thine : 
His bosom knew no falsehood, and he deemed 
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior's shield, 
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone 
Aie brightly imaged forth. 
41 



Sylv. What now avail 
These recollections ? 

Seb. What ! I have seen thee shrink. 
As a murderer from the eye of light, before mo 
I have earned (how dearly and how bitterly 
It matters not, but I have earned at last) 
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone 1 
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though ar- 
raigned 
E'en of Sebastian's friendship. Make his scom 
(For he will scorn thee, as a crouching slave 
By all high hearts is scorned) thy right, thy 

charter 
Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice. 
Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, 
Be as a sign, a token of thy claim 
To all such guerdons as are showered on traitors, 
When noble men are crushed. And fear thou not: 
'Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm 
Hurls from his mountain throne — th' ignoble 

shrub. 
Grovelling beneath, may live. 

Sylvi It is thy part 
To tremble for thy life. 

Seb. They that have looked 
Upon a heart like thine, should know too well 
The worth of life to tremble. Such thmgs make 
Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom 

fate 
Would trample should be thus. It is enough — 
Thou mayst depart. 

Sylv. And thou, if thou dost prize 
Thy safety, speed thee hence. \^Exit Sylveika. 

Seb. {alone.) And this is he 
Who was as mine own soul : whose image rose, 
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought 
That on the sick man's weary couch he lay. 
Pining to share my battles I 

CHORua. 

Ye winds that sweep 
The conquered billows of the western deep, 

Or wander where the morn 
'Midst the resplendent Indinn heavens is born, 
Waft o'er bright isles and glorious worlds the 

fame 
Of the crowned Spaniard's name : 

Till in each glowing zone 

Its might the nations own, 
And bow to him the vassal knee 
W^hose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea. 

Seb. Away — away ! this is no place for him 
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now 
A word of desolation. [Exit, 



322 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



THFl STEGE OF VALENCIA. 

A DRAMATIC POEM.' 

" Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna 
Del valor que en las siglos venideros 
Tendrin los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna, 
Hijos de tal padrea herederos. 

Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto 

Debe con justo titulo cantarse 

V lo que puede dar materia al canto." — CiiRTAKTXt, M^mmntUk 

DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Alvab Gokzalez, Oovemor of Valencia. 
A1.PHON90, Carlos, his Sons. 
Hernandez, a PriesL 
Abdallah, a Moorish Prince, Chief of 
the Army besieging Valencia. 



Gabcias, a Spanish Knight. 

Elmina, Wife to Oomalez. 
XiMENA, her Daughter. 
Theresa, an Attendant 



Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, Sfc. 



Scene. — Room in a Palace of Valencia. — Xi- 
MENA singing to a lute. 

BALLAD. 

" Thou hast not been with a festal throng 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the hall of song 

A mien so dark as thine ! 

1 Advertisement by the Author. — The history of Spain re- 
cords two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism 
which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. 
The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was 
defended, in 1994, for Sancho King of Castile, during the 
rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by Guzman suriiamed the 
Good. 2 The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, 
who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pesti- 
lence, maintained the city of Zainora for the children of 
Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of 
Trastamara. 3 

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished 
both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the 
f^.'lnwiug -jages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger 
color of nationality, might De imparted to the scenes in 
ivii:Jh she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions 
and high actions," by connecting a religious feeling with the 
patriotism and higli-mirided loyalty which had thus been 
proved " faithful unto death," and by surrounding her 
ideal dramatis personoe with recollections derived from the 
•lieroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this rea- 
•on, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed 
upon Valencia del CId as the scene to give them 
" A local habitation aud a nanie." 



See Qiiintana'p " Vidas de Espanolee Celebrcs," p. 53. 
& See Ae Preface *o Southey's " Chronicle of the Cid." 



There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
Thou hast brought from, some disastrous field 
That brow of wrath and gloom ! " 

" And is there blood upon my shield ? 

Maiden, it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle fip*^ 
All darkened to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain. 
Deep dyed — but not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet — but not with rain 

We have been in war array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hti+h bsithed her soil to-day. 
I ha-o-e se<5n the strong man die, 
And tL-s strinling meet his fate. 
Where the motmta^n winds go sounding bf 
I»i tne ltoncefval}<*s' Stn.it. 

" In the gloomy RoijoesraUc*' f>ra.'t 
There are heLois ana lanes deft •. 
And they that moved at mom eltte 
On a bed of heath are ieft ! 

There's many a fair young facr 
Which the war steed hath gone "'r» 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that comf; no more ! ' 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



32& 



» A-as ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest, 
And a white plume waving free ? 
With his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state ? 
Doth he come from where the swords flashed 
high 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ? " 

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and marked him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too Avildly bums. 
Till it rests amidst the slain ! " 

'• Thou canst not say that he lies low. 

The lovely and the brave : 
O, none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think txpon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been with valor's fate : 
But he is on his homeward way 
From the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow. 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war horse will not wake him now. 
Though it browse his greensward bed ! 
I have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate 
Where the mountain winds go sounding by 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

Elmina enters. 
Elm. Your songs are not as those of other 
days, 
Mine own Ximena ! Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and 

woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts ? 

Xim. My mother, this 
Is not the free air of our mountain wilds ; 
And these are not the halls wherein my voice 
First poured those gladdening strains. 

Elm. Alas ! thy heart 
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and 

heath, 
*iound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams 



Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not 

been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt. 
Thou shouldst have tracked ere now, with step 

as light, 
Their wildwood paths. 

Xim. I would not but have shared 
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm 

doth hush 
All floating whispery sounds, all bird notes 

wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be trained to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fixed face of death without dismay ? 
Elm. Woe ! woe ! that aught so gentle and so 

young 
Should thus be called to stand i' the tempest's 

path. 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had ntjt shrunk 
From mine own lot ; but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer 

bowers, 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fallen 
On dark and evil days ! 

Xim. Ay, days that wake 
All to their tasks ! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is summoned unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior spirits. Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suft'ering hearts ; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elm. Hast thou some secret woe 
That thus thou speak' st ? 

Xim. What soitow should be mine, 
Unknown to thee ? -' 

Elm. Alas ! the baleful air. 
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose tints of thy cheek hath fallen. 
And wrought an early withering. Thou hast 

crossed 
The paths of death, and ministered to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance ; and thy brow ha tit 

caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlikfi 



S24 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



What youth's bright mien should wear. My 

gentle child ! 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Xim. Thou hast no cause 
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour and the heavy step 
Of armfed men, break on our morning dreams — 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour. 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chilled their fiery blood ; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours. 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young 

leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My father 

comes — 
O, speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

Gonzalez enters. 

Elm. My noble lord. 
Welcome from this day's toil ! It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mailed bosom from the corselet's weight, 
To rest at fall of eve ? 

Gon. There may be rest 
For the tired peasant, when the vesper bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport : but unto him 
Who keeps the watoh-place on the mountain 

height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 

realms 
— Who speaks of rest ? ^ 

Xim. My father, shall I fiU 
The wine cup for thy lips, or bring the lute. 
Whose sounds thou lovest ? 

Gon. If there be strains of power 
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! — we must hear 
No melting music now ! 

Xim. I know all high 
Heroic ditties of the elder time, 
Sung by the mountain Christians,' in the holds 

I M( untain Cbnstians, those natives of Spain who, under 



Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet beai 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strain* 
Wherein the dark serranos '■' teach the rocks 
And the pine forests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou 

hear 
The war song of thine ancestor, the Cid ? 

Gon. Ay, speak of him ; for in that name is 

power. 
Such as might rescue kingdoms ! Speak of 

him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
I' th' annals of their house on such a name. 
How should they take Dishonor by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest ? 

Elm. O, why is this ? 
How my heart sinks ! 

Gon. It must not fail thee yet, 
Daughter of heroes ! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst 

number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath 



/f 



made 



The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise forever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel, 
O'erawed, shrank back before them ? Ay, the 

earth 
Doth call them martyrs ; but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay nought but dust. And earth doth call them 

martyrs ! 
Why, Heaven but claimed their blood, their Kves, 

and not 
The things which grew as tendrils round theix 

hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elm. Mean'st thou ? know'st thou aught ? — 

I cannot utter it — my sons ! my sons ! 

Is it of them ? O, wouldst thou speak of them . 

Gon. A mother's heart divineth but too well ! 

Elm. Speak, I adjure thee ! I can bear it all. 

Where are my children ? 

Gon. In the Moorish camp. 
Whose lines have girt the city. 

their prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of 
the nortliern provinces, where they maintained their religioa 
and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun Iqi 
the Moors. 
2 Serranos, mountaineers. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



92M 



Xim. But they live ? 
— All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elm. Say, they live. 

Gon. Elmina, still they live. 

Elm. But captives ! They 
^hom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds 
Where the rock eagle seemed not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor ! — O, how was this ? 

Gon. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain halls. 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elm. 'Tis enough. 
■ — And when shall they be ransomed ? 

Gon. There is asked 
A ransom far too high. 

Elm. What ! have we wealth 
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters ? Take thou all for them. 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's hehn, 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou know'st not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturbed. 
May dwell in sUence. 

Xim. Father ! doubt thou not 
But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this. 
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father ! 
We can bear all things. 

Goti. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Xim. We were not born for this. 

Gon. No, thou say'st well ! 
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child ! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns ? If bj^ them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! But he for whom 
Freedom and life may but be won with shame, 
Hath nought to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elm. Gonzalez, who must die .' 

Gon. (hurriedli/.) They on whose lives a fear- 
ful price is set, 
But to be paid by treason ! Is't enough ? 
Or must I yet seek words ? 

Elm. That look saith more ! 
Thou canst not mean 



Gon. I do ! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it ? They must die J 
They — must their names be told ? — our sont 

must die. 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Xim. 0, look up ! 
My mother, sink not thus ! Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the 
breeze ? No, no, not theirs ! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope ? 
— And there is hope. I will not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For Nature is all-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gon. {solemnly.) Hope but in Him 
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quivered in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds and on the breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold ! Earth has no hope : 
It rests with Him. 

Elm. Thou canst not teU me this ! 
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gon. If there have been 
Men in whose bosoms nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honor, lift thy hands ; 
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with 

strength, 
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elm. Then their doom is sealed ! 
Thou wilt not save thy children .'* 

Gon. Hast thou cause. 
Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies withiu 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My n ame to that word — traitor f They thai 

sleep 
On their proud battle fields, thy sires and mine 
Died not for this ! 

Elm. 0, cold and hard of heart ! 
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy sou] 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight ! Men ! men ! too much il 

yours 
Of vantage ; ye that with a sound, a breath 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted- up affections, o'er whose vo'd 



326 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Our yearning hearts must wither ! So it is, 
Dominion must be won ! Naj', leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ! I must be heard ! 
Give me my sons. 

Gon. That they may live to hide 
With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 
They called their father ! Was the oath whereby. 
On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself 
With an unswerving spirit to maintain 
This free and Christian city for my God 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand ? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth. 
Or e'en the lifedrops of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake ? Then nevermore 
Let man's deep vows be trusted ! — though en- 
forced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances. 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 
On their good swords ! Think'st thou I feel no 

pangs ? 
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart 
Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more : 
"Pis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate Cross 
Still from our ancient temples must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at 

its foot 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample ! 

Elm. Scorn me not 
In mine extreme of misery ! Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild ; 
I know not what I ask. And yet 'twere but 
Vnticipating fate — since it must fall. 
That Cross must fall at last ! There is no power, 
No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, 
Than th' arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
''.J'erhang the desolate splendor of her domes 



With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth, 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms ane 

signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease 
When leagued with arm6d foes ? Where noiiv 

the aid, 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile i 
We are forsaken in our utmost need — 
By Heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gon. If this be, 
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves 

to death, 
Through high conviction that their suffering land 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elm. 0, I have stood 
Beside thee through the beating storms of life 
With the true heart of unrepining love — 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, 
In the parched vineyard, or the harvest field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour, 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust. 
Owning that woe is mightier ! Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home — a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gon. Urge me not, 
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 
Worthy a brave man's love ! — O, urge me not 
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding 

tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elm. All, all thy gentle race. 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom them 

aU? 
She, too, thy daughter — doth her smile un- 
marked 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her : seest thou not 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty ; and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send. 
With every glance, deep bodings through th« 

soul. 
Telling of early fate ? 
Gon. I see a change 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



327 



Far nobler on her brow ! She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laughed upon th' awakening 

heart. 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its fuD dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose 

source 
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch, 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! She hath 

put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breastplate. Ay ! men look on her, 
And she goes forth serenely to her tasks. 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips — they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elm. And seest thou not 
In that high faith and strong collectedness 
A fearful inspiration ? They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought 
Investing youth with grandeur ! From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me ; 
Ximena ! kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied, 

— His children's lives ! 

Xim, Alas ! this may not be : 
Mother ! — 1 cannot. [Exit Ximena. 

Gon. My heroic child ! 

— A terrible sacrifice thou claim' st, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 

Elr** If' 't thus in thine ? 
Away ! What time is given thee to resolve 
On — what I cannot utter ? Speak ! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 

Gon. Until — ask not ! 
The time is brief. 

Elm. Thou said'st — I heard not right 

Gon. The time is brief. 

Elm. What ! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are 
twined > 



And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man in his cold heartlessness hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments ? Why, the sentenced 

wretch, 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! Is it not thus ? 
We must have time to school us. 

Gon. We have but 
To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elm. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and 

gentle words, 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert vapor, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! There is 

none. 
In all this cold and hollow world — no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 
But as the heir of his great name — the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 
This is man's love ! What marvel ? — you ne'er 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, , 

While to the fulness of your heart's glad heav- 

ings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, aU dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye ; not yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, 
Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er 

smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sang him to his rosy rest ; 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from 

yours 
Had learned soft utter/uice ; pressed your lip to 

his, 
When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward 

cries 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
No ! these are woman's tasks ! — in these hel 

youth. 



828 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



And bloom of cheet., and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmarked ! My boys ! my 

boys ! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? 
— Why were ye given me ? 

Gon. Is there strength in man 
Thus to endure ? That tnou couldgt read, through 

aU 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe doth rend ! 

Elm. Th)' heart — thy heart ! Away ! it feels 
not 710W ! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds — my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones ; and we shall sleep, 
Though kings lead armies o'er us — we shall 

sleep. 
Wrapped in earth's covering mantle ! You the 

while 
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls. 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never- 
more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs. 
But all, all — glorious, — conquerors, chieftains, 

kings, 
To people that cold void ! And when the 

strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the 

blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening, — if at last you pine 
For the glad voices and the bounding steps 
Once through your home reechoing, and the 

clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 
)f eyes that laughed with youth, and made your 

board 
A place of sunshine, — when those days are come. 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world — the smiling, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long — and bid it 

quench 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame! immortal 

fame ! 
Fame to the sick of heart ! — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
r th' burning waste, for water ! 
Gon. This from thee ! 



Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. 
Elmina — I forgive thee ! [Exit Elmina. 

Aid me, Heaven ! 
From whom alone is power ! O, thou hast set 
Duties so stern of aspect in my path. 
They almost to my startled gaze assume 
The hue of things less hallowed ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials ! Doth not He 
Who made us know the limits of our strength ! 
My wife ! my sons ! Away ! I must not pausa 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 

[Exit Gonzalez 

Scene II. — The Aisle of a Gothic Church. 
Hernandez, Garcias, and Others. 

Her. The rites are closed. Now, valiant men ! 
depart. 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest — 
Your faithful vigils for j'our sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But blessed be those who toil 
For after days ! All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors ! through the lingering 

hours 
Of the night watch. 

Gar. Ay, father ! we have need 
Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have looked 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath, 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves looked e'en as though 

their source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a knightly crest 
Rolled with them to the deep. And, in the yean 
Of my long exile and captivity. 
With the fierce Arab I have watched beneath 
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm, 
At midnight in the desert ; while the wind 
Swelled with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Pressed on my weary heart. 

Her. {thoughtfully.) Thou little kftow'st 
Of what is soUtude ! I teU thee, those 
For whom — in earth's remotest nook, howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas — there beats one human heart, 
There breathes one being, unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound 
Heard o'er the din of fife, are not alone ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



329 



Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 
For there is that on earth -vvi'lh which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul ! Ca.l him alone, 
Who stands shut out from this ! — and let not 

those 
WTiose homes are bright with sunshine and with 

love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot ! A lonely hour 
1» on its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Kj dws no companionship. 

Gar. I have looked on Death 
III field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weighed down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries. 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth. 
Omens in heaven! The summer skies put 

forth 
No clear, bright stars above us, but at times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath^ 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor steeds — th' 

array 
Of spears and banners tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 
Her. Ay, last night I too 
Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens ; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' the air, when, as they 

closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were 

flung 
Through the dull glare broad, cloudy banners 

forth ; 
And chariots seemed to whirl and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy ; then swift darkness 

rushed 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. I looked, 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face. I looked again, 
And from the brooding mass of cloud leaped forth 
One meteor sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes 

give 
Unto a rocking citadel ! I beheld, 
And yet my spirit sank not. 

Gar- Neither deem 
fhat mine hath bleixhed. But these are sights 

and sounds 
To awe the firmest. Know'st thou what we hear 
42 



At midnight from the walls ? Were't but th6 

deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal. 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulse! 
Quickening its fiery currents. Bat our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knel] 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut 

down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en 

the air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sighed on its hollow breezes ! To my soul 
The torrent rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Her. (iviih solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid waves of combat, as thej'' bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark, 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows 
If thus to dare were valor's noblest aim. 
Lightly might fame be won ! But there ara 

things 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage tempered with a holier fire. 
Well mayst thou say that these are fearful times ; 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 
When red swords meet in lightning. But oui 

task 
Is more and nobler ! We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
And to defend an altar ! If we fall. 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! Think but on this. 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suff'ering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well. 

Gar. Father, farewell. 

[Exeimt Gaecias and Ms folhwera. 

Her. These men have earthly ties 
And bondage on their natures ! To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, thej-- bring but haU 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath called to be th' awakener of a land 
Should have his soul's aff"ections all absorbed 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment — as a mountain-bom 
And mighty stream, with all its vassal rill* 



830 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 

To dally •with the flowers. Hai'k ! what quick 

step 
Comes hurrying through the gloom, at this dead 

hour i 

Elmina enters. 

Elm, Are not all hours as one to misery ? Why 
J^ould sfie take note of time for whom the day 
And night have lost their bless6d attributes 
Of simshine and repose ? 

Her, 1 know thy griefs ; 
But there are trials for the noble heart, 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddj'ing waters. 

Him, Think thou not 
I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form -7- 
Whose human form — doth seal them unto suf- 
fering ! 
Father ! I ask thine aid. 

Her, There is no aid 
For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud. 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elm. There is no aid ! Art thou a man of 
God? 
Art thou a man of sorrow ? — for the world 
Doth call thee such : — and hast thou not been 

taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are — 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Her, Is there power 
With me to save thy sons ? — implore of Heaven ! 

Elm. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by 
man? 
I tell thee thou canst save them ! Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor ? Unto him thy words 
Axe e'en fes oracles 

Per. A nd therefore ? Speak ! — 
The livable daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath nought to ask unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage ? Dost thou shrink ? 

Elm. Have pity on me, father ! I must speak 
That, from the thought of which but yesterday 
I had recoiled in scorn ! But this is past. 
O, we grow humble in our agonies, 
And to the dust, their birthplace, bow the heads 
That wore the crown of glory ! I am weak — 
My chastening is far more than I can bear. 



Her. Tlese are no times for weakness. On 
our hiUs 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might. 
Are battling with the tempest, and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! — what wouldst thou with 
thy lord ? 
Elm. Look not upon me thus ! I have no 
power 
To teU thee. Take thy keen, disdainful eye 
Oif from my soul ! What ! am I sunk to this ? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! How my 

sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring dis- 
grace 
On their majestic line ! My sons ! my sons ! 

— Now is aU else forgotten ! I had once 
A babe that in the early springtime lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last. 

When earth's young flowers were opening to 

the sun. 
Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deemed 
All sorrow light to mine ! But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder clouds ! 0, I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst 

win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 

Her. By j'^ielding up the city ? 

Elm. Rather say 
By meeting that which gathers close upon us, 
Perchance one day the sooner ! Is't not so ? 
Must we not yield at last ? How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease. 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Her. How long ? While He 
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and suiferings of the soul. 
Than in the circling heavens with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! How long i 

— And who art thou that, in the littleness 

Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stayed, and flow no farther ? But the Powei 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs. 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 
Elm. O, there are times, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



331 



When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Her. Who dies in vain 
Upon his country's war iields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? Feeble heart ! 
I teU thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus poured for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death, shall burst, ar.d make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land, 
Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven, 
And perished by her temples, sink a while, 
Borne down in conflict ! But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills, and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest ! Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 
Elm. Then it must be ! And ye will make 

those lives, 
Those young bright lives, an offering — to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Her. The mantle of that day 
May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elm. What led me here ? 
Why did I turn to thee in my despair ? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man ? 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! What knows thy 

heart ? 
Her. Woman ! how darest thou taunt me 

with my woes ? 
Thy children, too, shaU perish, and I say 
It shall be well ! Why takest thou thought for 

them ? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health 
Unprized to melt away i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyseK? Why, what hath 

earth 
To pay thee back for this ? Shall they not live 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten ? Years of thought. 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness. 
That changed not, though to change be this 

world's law — 
Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, 

whose blood 
Marks e'en like branding iron ? to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness ? 
Dota. not all hone end thus ? or e'en at best, 



WUl they not leave thee? far from thee seek 

room 
For the o'erflo wings of their fiery souls 
On life's wide ocean ? Give the bounding steed 
Or the winged bark to youth, that his li:ee course 
May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elm. Not so ! it is not so ! 
Thou dost but torture me ! My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Her. Others, too, have worn 
The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee 

yet; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth. 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elm. It may not be ! 
Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 

Her. My son lay stretched upon his battle bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him which 

had caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elm. What tale is this ? 

Her. Read you no records in this mien, of 
things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water ? Lofty birth. 
War, peril, power ? Affliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! I hav-e not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish ! I was once a chief — 
A warrior — nor, as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elm. Then thy heart can feel! 
Thou wilt have pity ! 

Her. Should I pity thee ? 
Thy sons wUl perish gloriously — their blood 

Elm. Their blood ! my children's blood ! Thou 
speak' st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! My fair boys 1 
— Man ! hast thou been a father ? 

Her. Let them die ! 
Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimmed 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed tl e idols whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ! Thou think' st H 

much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 



S32 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



Those whom we love, in our fond passionate 

blindness, 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts ; and they are merciful, 
As they arc strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
Ay, fear them ! fear the loved ! Had I but wept 
O er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dewdrops, glittering in the sun. 
And brightening the young verdure, I might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elm. {disdainfully.) But he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ! 

Her. Glory ! — Peace, 
And listen ! By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I reared him to take joy 
I' th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king ! His quick blood 
Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up. 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his 

eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds 

— But this availeth not ! Yet he loas brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest ; and his plume 
Waved like a torch above the battle storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had 

sunk. 
And banners were struck down. Around my 

steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seemed to stand between my soul and heaven, 

— Then came the thunderstroke ! 
Elm. 'Tis ever thus ! 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with aU deep love ! He died ? 
Her. Not so ! 

— Death ! Death ! Why, earth should be a 

paradise. 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died. 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
X had not learned the might of agony 
To bring proud natures low! No ! he fell off — 
Why do I tell thee this ? what right hast thou 
To learn how passed the glory from my house ? 
Yet listen ! He forsook me ! He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me ! trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And» for the dark eye of a Moorish maid. 



Abjured his faith, his God ! Now, talk of 
death ! 

Elm. O, I can pity thee 

Her. There's more to hear. 
I braced the corselet o'er my heart's deep wound 
And cast my trcubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking ; 

Elm. And ye met 
No more ? 

Her. Be still ! We did ! we 'met once more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil, , 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had looked upon such things ? We met onca 

more. 
That was an hour to leave its lightning mark 
Seared upon brain and bosom ! There had been 
Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed 

round — 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death, I strova 
Long with a turbaned champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and pre- 
vailed. 
He fell — my heart exulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumph o'er him. Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree! 
He strove to speak — but I had done the work 
Of wrath too well ; yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense. The moon 

looked forth, 
And I beheld ! — speak not — 'twas he — my son ! 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance. 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon. I will not have thy look 
Fixed on me thus ! Away ! 

Elm. Thou hast seen this. 
Thou hast done this — and yet thou liv'st ? 

Her. I live ! 
And know'st thou wherefore ? On my soul 

there fell 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
AU earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's 

shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent iti 

tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shal^e off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



339 



Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Sealed by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 
And set apart, and fearfully marked out 
Unto a mighty task ! To rouse the soul 
Of Spain as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, 
Gathering her sons to battle ! And my voice 
Must he as freedom's trumpet on the winds. 
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afric ; till the land 
Have filled her cup of vengeance ! Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven ! 
But death shall have a bloodier vintage feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Elm. I ask thee this no more. 
For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes ! Thy voice hath power 
Through the wide city : here I cannot rest — 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Her. And wherefore ? 

Elm. Thou, 
That wert a father, and art now — alone ! 
Canst thou ask "wherefore ? " Ask the wretch 

whose sands 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform. 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death. 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parched lip 
Implores a cup of water ? Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer ? I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more ! And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish ! But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish ? Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt ? 

Her. There ! — with the Moor ! 
Let him fill up the measure of his guilt ! 
— 'Tis madness all ! How wouldst thou pass 

th' array 
Of armed foes ? 

Elm. O, free doth sorrow pass. 
Free and unquestioned, through a suffering 
world ! * 

Her. This must not be. Enough of woe is 
laid 
E'en now upon thy lord's heroic soul, 

1 " Frey gelit das UnglUck durcli die ganze Erde." 

Schiixer's Death of WaUenstein, act iv. sc. 2. 



For man to bear unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburdened heart. Away ! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers foi 

strength 
Up to heaven's gate. Farewell ! 

[Exit Hebnandbz 
Elm. Are all men thus ? 

— Why, were't not better they should fall e'en 

now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scozn, 
Against the sufferer's pleadings ? But no, no ? 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow ? 

(After a pause.) There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported, and whosa 

hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid. 
When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE, {heard without.) 
Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High heart ! and what are we, 
While o'er our heads the storm sweeps on. 
That we should mourn for thee ? 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain I 

Be theirs to weep the dead. 
As they sit beneath their vines, 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain. 
And po\ir our blood where thine hath flowed, 
Too blest if not in vain ! 

We give thee holy rite. 

Slow knell, and chanted t-itrain ! 

— For those that fall to-morrow night. 

May be left no funeral train. 

Again, when trumpets wake. 
We must brace our armor on ; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break — 
Thou to thy rest art gone ! 

Happier in this than all. 
That, now thy race is run. 



334 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Upon thy name no stain may fall ; 
Thy work hath well been done ! 

Elm. " Thy work hath well been done ! " — 
so thou mayst rest ! 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now I may not pause. [Exit Elmina. 

ScENB III. — A Street in the City. 

Hernandez, Gonzalez. 

Her. Would they not hear ? 
Gon. They heard, as one that stands 
By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer by 
Bid him be confronted ! Their hearts have died 
Within them ! We must perish not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the 

hiUs, 
And peal through heaven's great arch, but si- 
lently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, 
Which lit us on our toils ! Reproach me not ; 
My soul is darkened with a heavy cloud — 
Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Her. Breathe not the word. 
Save in proud scorn ! Each bitter day o'er- 

passed 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting 

heart ! 
A few brief hours, and those that turned away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be arrayed for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance. 
When they were weary ; they had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then, 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins ; or they 

had caught 
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped 

forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 

Gon. Alas ! the cause 
Lies deeper in their misery ! I have seen, 
In my night's course through this beleaguered 

«ity, 
Things whos e remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapors from the mountains. There were 

some. 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 



Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut ou 

all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answered with a fierce and bitter laugh, 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless 

word, 
Dropped from the light of spirit. Others lay — 

— Why should I tell thee, father ! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust ? And yet for this. 

Fear not that I embrace my doom — O God ! 
That 'twere my doom alone ! — with less of fixed 
And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life ; 

— But what are these ? Who hath not dearef 

lives 
Twined with his own ! I shall be lonely soon — 
Childless ! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

[Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 

Scene IV. — A Tent in the Moorish Camp. 
Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos. 

4^bd. These are bold words : but hast thou 

looked on death. 
Fair stripling ? On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climbed some eagle's nest, and thou hast 

made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much ! And fear'st thou 

not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alph. I have been 
Reared amongst fearless men, and 'midst the 

rocks 
And the wild hills whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learned them alL 
How should I fear thee. Moor ? 

Abd. So, thou hast seen 
Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild 

flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves ! But know'stthou 

aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword 

strikes fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steedi 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



83A 



lliat ruled the storm so late ? — Speak not of 

death 
rill thou hast looked on such. 

Alph. I vras not born 
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales ; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights ! I am of princely race ; 
And if my father would have heard my suit, 
I teli. thee, infidel, that long ere now 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Ahd. Boy ! — know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful ? Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains 

ring 
To battle horn and tecbir.' But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, 

boy? — 
To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun. 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth 
Unto the death of shame ! — Hadst thou seen 

this 

Alph, {to Carlos.') Sweet brother, God is with 

us — fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires : — this man 
Should-not behold us tremble. 

Abd. There are means 
To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wUt thou, from beneath the walls, 
Sue to thy sire for life ! — or wouldst thou die 
With this thy brother !> 

Alph. Moslem ! on the hills. 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain peasants, as they dressed the 

vines. 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizona ^ cleared its way through turbaned hosts, 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor.^ I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him ! 

\^A Moorish soldier enters. 

1 Tecbir, the war cry of the Moors and Arabs. 

2 Tizona, ttie firebrand. The name of the Cid's favorite 
Bword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

3 Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken 
by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of 
the Mocrs (or a hundred and seventy years after the Cid's 
death, tt was regained from them by King Don Jayme of 
Aragon, surnaraed the Conqueror ; after whose success I 
have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the 
Campeador. 



Sol. Valencia's lord 
Sends messengers, my chief. 
Abd. Conduct them hither. 

[ The soldier goes out and reenters with Elhin^ 
disguised, and an attendant. 
Car. {springing forward to the attendant.) 
O, take me hence, Diego ! take me henco 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning when I wake. Here dark-browed 

men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon vlb. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind. 
And well 1 know thou lov'st me, my Diego ! 
Abd. Peace, boy ! — What tidings, Christian, 
from thy lord ? 
Is he grown humbler ? — doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's w^orth ? 

Alph. {rushing forward impatiently.) Say not 
he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here ' 
If it be so, I could weep burning tears 
For very shame ! If this can be, return ! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle spoils, 
I will but ask a war horse and a sword, 
And that beside him in the mountain chase, 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts, 
My place shall be no more ! But no ! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ! Moor, believe it not : 
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ! — and I, too, I can die 
As a warrior's high-boni child ! 

Elm. Alas, alas ! 
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fail 

boy? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst 

cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alph, That voice doth sound 

Abd. Stranger, who art thou ? — this is mock- 
ery ! speak ! 
Elm. {throwing off a mantle and helmet, and 
embracing her so7is.) 
My boys ! whom I have reared through man^ 

hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart. 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years ! 

Car. Sweet mother ! now 
Thou shalt not leave us more. 

Abd. Enough of this ! 
Woman ! what seek'st thou here ? How hast 

thou dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts ? 



336 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 

but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down ? Thou little 

know'st 
Of nature's marvels. Chief ! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior 

men, 
Ay, they that master death by field or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved ! I have no 

thought. 
No sense of fear ! Thou'rt mighty ! but a soul 
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling poured through all its depths. 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! Am I not come 
To die with these my children ? 

Abd. Doth thy faith 
Bid thee do this, fond Christian ? Hast thou not 
The means to save them ? 

Elm. I have prayers, and tears, 
And agonies ! — and he, my God — the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To bow the crested head — hath made these 

things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm called forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth ! For thee, 

perchance, 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart ; and thou maj'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low. 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throtos herself at his feet. 
Conqueror, I can kneel ! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves. 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased ! 
Do this, but spare my sons ! 

Alph. (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst 

not kneel 
Unto this infidel ! Rise, rise, my mother ! 
This sight doth shame our house ! 

Abd. Thou daring boy ! 
They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unta another language. 
Elm. Peace, my son ! 
Have pity on my heart ! O, pardon, chief ! 
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet ! 
Are there no Uves through which the shafts of 

Heaven 
May reach your soul r He that loves aught on 

earth. 



Dares far too much, if he be merciless ! 

Is it for those, whose frail mortality 

Must one day strive alone with God and death, 

To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 

Of nature, in her anguish ? Warrior, man, 

To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts, 

By thousands and ten thousands marshalled 

round. 
And your strong armor on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not ! Where shall your 

high heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet, 
And you have pitied not ? 

Abd. These are vain words. 

Elm. Have j-^ou no children ? — fear ye not to 
bring 
The lightning on their heads ? In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out. 
To greet your homeward step ? You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
For is not woman's in all climes the same ? — 
That you should scorn my prayer ! Heaven ! 

his eye 
Doth wear no mercy ! 

Abd. Then it mocks you not. 
I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms upon them ! ShaU. I now be stayed ? 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing, 
In this my course, to quench your children's lives, 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elm. Are there such hearts 
Amongst thy Avorks, God ? 

Abd. Kneel not to me. 
Kneel to your lord ! on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 

Elm. (rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble 
men ! He bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alph. (with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus ! 
He could not fail ! 

Elm. There is no mercy, none. 
On this cold earth ! To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love ! We will go hence, 
My children ! we are summoned. Lay your 

heads. 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round* 
Will yet have pity, and before His face 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



337 



We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once ! 

Abd. 'Tis thine own will. 
These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elm. Thou wilt not spare ! 
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, 
And in whose paths they sported, and wliose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Father — once a name of love — 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abd. Hath the blast 
Of sudden trumpets ne'ei at dead of night, 
When the land's watchers feared no hostile step, 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world. 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine ? 

Elm. There's meaning in thine eye. 
More than thy words. 

Abd. {pointing to the city.) Look to yon tow- 
ers and walls ! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine, 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance ? 

Elm. Thou hast said too well. 
But what of this ? 

Ahd. Then there are those, to whom 
The Prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not 
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest, 
Be won to welcome us ? Your children's steps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's 
halls ! 

Alph. {indignantly .) Thou treacherous Moor ! 

Elm. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, Heaven ! 

Abd. Now, 'tis for thee, 
Thou Christian mother ! on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — life or death ! The price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alph. Mother ! thou tremblest ! 

Abd. Hath thy heart resolved ? 

Elm. {covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abd. Come forth. We'll commune elsewhere. 

Car. {to his mother.) Wilt thou go ? 
O, let me follow thee ! 

Elm. Mine own fair child ! 
Now that thine eyes have poured once more on 

mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet 

voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, 
43 



And I have felt the twining of thine arms - 
How shall I leave thee ? 

Abd. Leave him, as 'twere bui 
For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun s. 
Alph. Thou hast no look 
For me, my mother ! 

Ebn. O that I should live 
To say, I dare not look on thee ! Farewell, 
My first born, fare thee well ! 

Alph. Yet, yet beware ! 
It were a grief more heavy on my soul, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my 

grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep ! 

Abd. AAvay ! we triEe here. The night wanes 
fast. 
Come forth ! 

Elm. One more embrace ! My sons, farewell , 
[Exeunt Abdullah loith Elmina and 
her Attendant. 
Alph. Hear me yet once, my mother ! Art 
thou gone ? 
But one word more ! 

[lie rushes out, followed by Carlos. 

ScENB V. — The Garden of a Palace in Valencia 

Ximena, Thebesa. 

Ther. Stay yet a while. A purer air doth rore 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes. 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs. 
Than waits you in the city. 

Xim. There are those 
In their last need, and on their bed of death, — 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, — 
That wait me in the city.- Let us hence. 

Ther. You have been wont to love the music 

made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, 
Breathing of citron groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death .' 

Xim. To me the voice 
Of summer, whispering through young flowers 

and leaves, 
Now speaks too deep a language ! and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies. 
The breathing soul is sadness ! I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all he* 

sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is 

cause 
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes 



138 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



WT^ere Death is busy, taming warrior hearts, 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood, 
And fettering the strong arm ! For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 
Some iokcn to my soul. But nought of this 
Unto my mother ! These are awful hours ! 
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Tlicr. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light. 
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have marked of late. Nay, go not yet ; 
.Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of cool- 
ness. 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing 
The melody you love. 

Theresa sings. 
Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 

So far from her own bright land ■" 
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 

Were sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the rose of Sharon's Eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades, 
And none but strangers pa.ss the tomb 

Which the palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 

Marks well that place of rest ; 
But who hath graved on its mossy stone 

A sword, a helm, a crest >' 

These ar« the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear ! 
— Some blossom plucked, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier ! 

Bern not her tomb — deny not her 

The honors of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre 

Banner and plume miglit wave. 



She bound the steel, in battle tried, 

Her fearless heart above, 
And stood with bravo men side by siJe, 

In the strength and faith of love ! 

That strength prevailed — that faith was blessed 

True was the javelin thrown. 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast — 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so weU, 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air. 
And the palm of Judah lift its head. 

Green and immortal there ! 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 

With its trophy mark the scene, 
Telling thcpilgrim of the waste 

Where love and death have been. 

Xim. Those notes were wont to make my 

heart beat quick, 
As at a voice of victory ; but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournful. O that, ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner ! In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers ! — But for 

me 

Come on — our tasks await us. They who 

know 
Their hours are numbered out have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of 

flowers, 
And whisper of soft winds. 

[Elmina enters hurriedly. 
Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I 

meet 
His eye, which must be met. — Thou here, 

Ximena ! 

[8Ae starts back on seeing Ximena. 
Xim. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying 

step 

And troubled glance I read 

Elm. (wildly.) Thou read'st it not ' 
Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay glaring, which within our heart» 
We treasure up for God's ? Thou read'st it not 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



33 



[ say, thou canst not ! There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open ! 

Xim. Mother ! what is this ? 
Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flushed, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elm. Rest ! — who should rest ? — not he 
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than life ! No ! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls 
Such things his own, take rest ! — Dark spirits 

keep watch ; 
And they to whom fair honor, chivalrous fame. 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find 

their souls 
Made marks for human scorn ! Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery ? Who shall tell us this ? 

— Will he so bear it ? 

Xtm. Mother ! let us kneel 
And blend our hearts in prayer ! What else is 

left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

them? 

— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 
Is Heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me ? 
Elm. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstained, to 

wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm. 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings ! — Didst 

thou speak 
Of peace ? 'tis fied from earth ! But there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy ! And who shall know, my 

child. 
It is not happiness ? Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close ! Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain air ! — But hush ! the 

trees, 
The flowers, the waters, must hear nought of 

this ! 
Ther are full of voices, and will whisper 

things 

— We'll speak of it no more. 



Xini. O pitying Heaven ! 
This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Elm. {^starting.) Hark ! a step ! 
'Tis — 'tis thy father's ! Come away ■ — not 

now — 
He miist not see us now ! 

Xim. Why should this be ? 

[Gonzalez enters, and detains Elminj 

Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me ? Have 
we not 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows. 
Held on through life together ? And is this. 
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild ? 

Elm. {coldly.') There needs not this. 
Why shouldst thou think I shunned thee ? 

Gon. Should the love 
That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Elm. Speak'st thou thus ? 

— I have knelt before thee with that very 

plea. 
When it availed me not ! But there are things 
Whose very breathings from the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, 
And vain devotedness ! Ay ! they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gon. This is but 
The wildness and the bitterness of grief. 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power, 
Which makes all conflict vain. 

Hark ! was there no 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena? 

Xim. O my fathei^ 
I know that horn too well. — 'Tis but the windi 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gon. Alas ! this woe must be ! 
I do not shake my spirit from its height, 
So startling it with hope ! But the dread hout 
Shall be met bravely stiU. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while — and Heaven w 11 ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart 

— And thine, Elmina ? 



Elm. 'Tis — I am prepared. 
I have prepared for all. 

Gon. 0, well I knew 
rhou M-ouldst not fail me ! Not in vain my soul, 
'Jpon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elm. {wildly.) Away! — thouknow'stme not ! 
Man dai'es too far — his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart ! 

Gon. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee ! Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimmed o'er every trial? And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided ! — Thine, 
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honor. By his side 

Elm. May this be borne ! How much of agony 
Hath the heart room for ? Speak to me in wrath 

— I can endure it ! But no gentle words ! 

No words of love ! no praise ! Thy sword might 

slay. 
And be more merciful ! 

Gon. Wherefore art thou thus ? 
Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elm. No more of love ! 

— Have I not said there's that within my heart. 
Whereon it falls as living fire would faU 
Upon an unclosed wound ? 

Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes. 
That I may read their meaning ! 

Elm. Never more 
With a free soul. What have I said ? — 'twas 

nought ! 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the 

speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 

Go7i. I have seen thee in the hour 
Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilling round thee ; in all change, 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and 

fear ; 
Youth and decline ; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, per- 
turbed 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elm. Thy glance doth search 
A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gon. Hast thou there 
^ught to conceal ? 
Elm. Who hath not ? 
Gon. Till this hour 
Thou never hadst ! Yet hear me ! — by the free 



And unattainted fame which wraps the duBt 

Of thine heroic fathers 

Elm. This to me ! 

— Bring your inspiring war notes, and youi 

sounds 
Of festal music round a dying man ! 
Will his heart echo them ? But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up, 'v^ith each lofty tone, 
The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gon. Then, by her. 
Who there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 
No bUght must fall, and whose pale cheek must 

ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonor — Speak ! 
Unfold this mystery ! By thy sons 

Elm. My sons ! 
And canst thou name them ? 

Gon. Proudly ! Better far 
They died with all the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honor of their house upon them, 
Than that, with manhood's high and passionata 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live. 
Barred from the lists of crested chivaky. 
And pining, in the silence of a woe. 
Which from the heart shuts daylight — o'er th« 

shame 
Of those who gave them birth ! But thou couldst 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

Elm. {ivildly) 'Twas but for them ! 
'Twas for them only ! Who shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime ? And he who made us knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gon. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust as o'er our nature threw 
A glory scarce allowed — what hast thou done ? 

— Ximena, go thou hence ! 
Elm. No, no ! my child ! 

There's pity in thy look ! All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! O, leave me not ! 
Gon. That I should live to see thee thus 
abased ! 

— Yet speak ! What hast thou done ? 
Elm. Look to the gate ! 

Thou'rt worn with toil — but take no rest to- 
night ! 

The western gate ! Its watchers have been 
won — 

The Christian city hath been bought and sold 1 — 

They will admit the Moor ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



341 



Goii. They have been won ! 
Brave men and tried so long ! Whose work was 
this? 

Elm. Think'st thou all hearts like thine ? Can 
mothers stand 
To see their children perish ? 

Goii. Then the guilt 
Was thine ? 

Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt ? 
tell thee, Heaven, which made all holy things. 
Made nought more holy than the boundless love 
Which tills a mother's heart ! I say, 'tis woe 
Enough, with such an aching tenderness. 
To love aught earthly ! and in vain ! in vain ! 
— We are pressed down too sorely ! 

Gon. {in a loio desponding voice.) Now my life 
>.s struck to worthless ashes ! — In my soul 
Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows ; 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is poured upon me, 
To read the guilty secrets in each eye 
That once looked bright with truth ! 

Why, then, I have gained 
What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to 

which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity, 
And holy courage, and proud honor, tried. 
Searched, and found steadfast, even to martyr- 
dom, 
Are food for mockery ! Why should I not cast 
From my thinned locks the wearing helm at 

once. 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down forever ? Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness. 
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 
Worth striving for again ? 

Xim. Father ! look up ! 
Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gon. Thy face is fair ; 
And hath been unto me, in other days. 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep ! 
But now — 'tis too like hers ! 

Elm. {falling at his feet.) Woe, shame and woe, 
Are on me in their might ! Forgive ! forgive ! 

Gon. {starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that / 
have part or share 
Or counsel in his vileness ? Stay me not ! 
Let go thy hold — 'tis powerless on me now : 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[Exit GoNZi'^EZ. 

Elm. Ximena, dost thou scorn me ? 

Xim. I have found 
In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 



Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom nought can blind, to dare do aughl 
But pity thee, dear mother ! 

Elm. Blessings light 
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! Is there aught else to do, 
Or suffer, ere we die ? — O God ! my sons ! 

— I have betrayed them ! All their innocen* 

blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Xim. How shall I comfort thee ? 

— 0, hark ! what sounds come deepening on the 

wind. 
So full of solemn hope ! 

A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, 
bearing relics, and chanting. 

Chant. 
A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious 

flower. 
Death, is gone forth ; he walks the wind in power 

Where is the warrior's hand ? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave : 
Hear us ; we perish ! — Father, hear and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The daj-^s of gladness, we have called on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish ! " — Father, hear and 
save! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge notes by • 
But they that linger soon unmourned must die — 

The dead weep not the dead ! 
Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave ? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, hear and save , 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 

Is not the strong man withered from our eye ? 

The arm struck down that held our banner! 

high ? — 

Thine is our spirits' trust ! 

Look through the gathering shadows of th 

grave ! 
Do we not perish ? — Father, hear and save ! 

Hernandez enters. 
Elm. Why com'st, thou, man of vengeance?— 
'V^'^hat have I 



342 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



To do -witli thee ? Am I not bo-\ved enough ? 
Ihou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Her. Thy lord 
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart ! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways 
Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elm. Till this day's task 
Be closed ! — There is strange triumph in thine 

eyes — 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame ? But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance ! My spirit 

now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief ; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou mayst re- 
proach 

Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven 

doth work 
By many agencies ; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but maj- 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires 
Pent in earth's caves. Thou hast but speeded 

that, 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart, 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties 
But to avert one day ! 
Elm. My senses fail. 
Thou saidst — speak yet again — I could not 

catch 
The meaning of thy Avords. 

H&r. E'en now thy lord 
Hath sent our foes deiiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful 

Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 
Which this day must be poured in sacrifice 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive hills 
Shall men set up the battle sign of fire, 
\nd round its blaze, at midnight, keep the 

ocnse 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale ! 
Xini. Peace, father ! peace ! 
Behold, she sinks ! — the storm hath done its 

work 
Upon the broken reed. O, lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. 

[They had her away. 



Scene YI. — A Street in Valencia. Severoi 
Groups of Citizens and Soldiers, matiy of them 
lying on the Steps of a Church, Arms scatterea 
on the Ground around them. 

An Old at. The air is sultry, as with thundei 
clouds. 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More fieely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erburdened. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount. 
To moisten his parched lip ? ^A citizen goes out. 

2d Cit. This wasting siege. 
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

3rf Cit. Why, better thus 
Than to be haunted with their famished cries, 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Cit. Heaven's will be done ! 
These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. 

Zd Cit. {with bitterness.) Why, we have but 
this thought 
Left for our gloomy comfort ! — And 'tis well ! 
Ay, let the balance be a while struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens ! They that 

bear 
The humble dead unhonored to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train 
With its exulting music ; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes, 
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould ! 

A:th Cit. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint lago's bell ? — How sullenly 
From the great tower it pealed ! 

5th Cit. Ay, and 'tis said 
No mortal hand was near when so it seemed 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Cit. Too well I know 
The sound of coming fate ! — 'Tis ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient houso.' O, there are things 
In this strange world of which we've all to learr 

1 It was a Spanish tradition that the great bell of th 
cathedral of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before 
King of Spain died. 



THE SIEGE OF VALEISCIA. 



3«l 



Wlien itri dark bounds are passed. Yon bell, 

untouched, 
(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak — 
When of that line some stately head is marked — 
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night, 
Rocking Valencia's towers. ' I've heard it oft. 
Nor know its warning false. 

Ath Cit. And will our chief 
Buy with the price of his fair children's blood 
A. few more days of pimng wretchedness 
For this forsaken city ? 

Old Cit. Doubt it not ! 

- But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ! And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame, 
Should pass away ! For she, his daughter too. 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose 

time 
To sojourn there is short. 

6th Cit. Then woe for us 
When she is gone ! Her voice, the very sound 
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning! Who 

like her 
Shall give us hope again ? 

Old Cit. Be still ! — she comes, 
And with a mien how changed ! A hurrying step, 
And a flushed cheek ! What may this bode ? — 
Be still ! 

XiMENA enters, with Attendants, carrying aBanner . 

Xim- Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here ? 

A Cit. We die ! 

X.im. Brave men die now 
iirt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way! 
These days require such death ! It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times. 
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently. 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! Hear 
ye not ? 

A Cit. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us ? 

Xim. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! Shall this be — 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hushed, 
I' th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd music ? Must this work be done. 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble 

thought 
Can so be thrilled no longer ? 



A Cit, 'Tis e'en so ! 
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathw 

upon us ; 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Xim. Are ye so j)oor 
Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye .can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the j oyous veins, 
And gives the fleet step wings ? Why, hcrt 

have age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause, 
Blessing that agony ? Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth — 
This dull mortality ? Nay, then look on me ! 
Death's touch hath marked me, and I stand 

amongst you. 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill ! — I say, the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now 
I've that within me, kindling through the dust, 
Which from all time hath made high deeds ita 

voice 
And token to the nations. Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven poured forth courage, as a 

flame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be 

stilled 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness. 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair. 
And your soul's torpor ? Yet, arise f nd arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Cit. Why, what are we, 
To cope with hosts ? Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 
O'ernumbered and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty ? 

Xim. And for whom 
Hath He, who shakes the miglity with a bresxh 
From their high places, made the fearfulness. 
And ever- wakeful presence of his power 
To the pale startled earth most manifest. 
But for the weak ? Was't for the helmed and 

crowned 
That suns were stayed at noonday ? — stormy 

seas 
As a ril^ parted ? — maOed archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death \ 
— I tell you, if these marvels have been done, 



$44 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



• Twas for the wearied and th' oppressed of men. 
They needed such ! And generous faith hath 

power, 
By her prevaihng spirit, e'en j'^et to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken ? He that gives the thought 
A place within his breast ? 'Tis not for you. 
— Know ye this banner ? 

Cits, {^murmuriiig to each other.) Is she not in- 
spired ? 
Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice ? 
Xim. Know ye this banner ? 
Cits. 'Tis the Cid's. 
Xim. The Cid's ! 
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to ? Why, the very vdnd, 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold, 
Hath a triumphant sound ! The Cid's ! it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land. 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 
Old Cit. Can ye still pause, my brethren ! O 

that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once 

again ! 
Xim. Ye linger still ? Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain ' 
Poured forth his conquering spirit ! 'Twas the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 
This banner of his battles, as it drooped 
Above the champion's death bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,* 
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty passed ! They wrapped 

him not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 
In war array, and on his barded ^ steed. 
As for a triumph, reared him ; marching forth 
In the hushed midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguered then, as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved. But who was he 
That followed, charging on the taU white horse. 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale. 
Waving in sheets of snowlight? And the cross. 
The bloody cross, far blazing from his shield, 

* "El que en buen hora nasco;" he that was bom in 
happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the an- 
cient chronicles. 

s For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish le- 
»ends, see The Romance-:, and Chronicle of the Cid. 

* Barded, caparisoned for battle. 



And the fierce meteor sword ? They fled, thet 

fled! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path. The cimeter 
Was shivered as a reed ; — for in that hour 
The warrior saint that keeps the watch for Spain 
Was armed betimes. And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner streamed all joyously, 
For still its lord was there. 

Cits, {rising tumultuous lij.) Even unto death 
Again it shall be followed ! 

Xim. Will he see 
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon light, 
Which from his house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thtw 

quenched at once ? 
WiU he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their utmost peril ? Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst I 
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke 
From its deep rest of old ; remembering Spain 
In her great danger ? At the night's mid watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men. 
By thousands marching through ! For he had 

risen ! 
The Campeador was on his march again. 
And in his arms, and followed by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 
And called his buried warriors from their sleep. 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 
For Afric was upon her. Morning broke, 
Day rushed through clouds of battle ; but at evo 
Our God had triumphed, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victorj"- from the field, 
That rocked her ancient mountains. 

Cits. Arms ! to arms ! 
On to our chief ! We have strength ^vithinus yet 
To die with our blood roused ! Now, be the 

word, 
For the Cid's house ! 

[They begin to arm themselvet, 
Xim- Ye know his battle song ? 
The old, rude strain wherewith his bands went 

forth 
To strike down Paynira swords ! [She singt- 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



34 a 



Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear ; 
^nd sharpen the point of the red wolf spear, 

And the sword for the brave man's hand ! 

[The Citizens join in the song, while 
they continue arming themselves.^ 

Banners are in the field ! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be po ared, 

And take up lus father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive ground, 
And the goats roam wild through the pine woods 
round : 

There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage robe, and the flowery crown ; 

And arm in the banquet haU ! 

And stay the funeral train : 
Bid the chanted mass be hushed a whUe, 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle. 

And the mourners girt for Spain. 

[ They take up the banner and follow Ximena 
out ; their voices are heard gradually dying 
away at a distance. 

Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears ! 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array ! 
His steed is barded, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky — 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 

Scene VIL — The tcalls of the city. The plains 
beneath, with the Moorish Camp and Army. 
Gonzalez, Gaecias, Hernandez. 
A wild sound of Moorish music heard from below. 
Her, What notes are these in their deep 
mournfulness 
So strangely wild ? 

Gar. 'T'.s the shrill melody 
Of the Moor's ancient death song. Well I know 
The rude, barbaric sound ; but tUl this hour 
It seemed not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo ! from yon tent 
They lead the noble boys ! 
U 



Her. The young, and pure, 
And beautiful victims ! — 'Tis on things like 

these 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope ! Yet this is weL* 
Thus brightly crowned with life's most gorgeous 

flowers, 
And all unblemished, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto heaven ! 

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Gon. (starting.) Are my sons there ? 
I knew they could not perish ; for j'on heaven 
Would ne'er behold it ! — Where is he that said 
I was no more a father ! They look changed — 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison house ! 
Or is't mine eyes see dimly ? But their stops 
Seem heavy, as with pain. I hear the clank — 
O God ! their limbs are fettered ! 

Abd. (coming forward beneath the walls.) 
Christian ! look 

Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword ; 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gon. Why should this man 
So mock us with the semblance of our kind ? 

— Moor ! Moor ! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 

Who visits for such things ! Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature ? 'Twill be taught thee yet; 
And darkly shall the anguish of my scul, 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine. 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust, 
And be denied ! 

Abd. Nay, is it not thyself 
That hast no mercy and no love within thee ? 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house ; 
Speak ! must they live or die ? 

Gon. (in violent emotion.) Is it Heaven's will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day 
With infinite agony ? How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head! They bloomed 

around me. 
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy, 
Glorying in their bright promise. — If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness ? 
Hebnandez, without speaking, holds up a cross 
before him. 

Abd. Speak! 

Gon. (snatching the cross, and lifting it up.) Lei 
the earth be shaken through its depths. 
But this must triumph ! 

Abd. (coldly.) Be it as thou wilt. 

— Unsheathe the cimeter ! [To his guards 
Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief I 



H6 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle proof as yours, 
Unmaddcned may sustain. 

Gon. Be still ! I have now 
No place on earth but this. 

Alph. (from beneath.) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Gar. The princely boy ! — how gallantly his 
brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death ! 

Alph. Father ! 

Gon. My son ! my son ! — Mine eldest born ! 

Alph. Stay but upon the ramparts ! Fear thou 
not — 
There is good courage in me. O my father ! 
I will not shame thee ! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength. 

Gon. Would, would to God 
That I might die for thee, my noble boy I 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alph. Could I have lived, 
I might have been a warrior ! Now, farewell ! 
But look upon me still ! — I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well ! 
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls. 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Gar. {to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 
We miust be gone ! Thou caiist not bear it ! 

Gon. Peace ! 
Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 

bear ? 
- ■ Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls fear- 
fuUy- 
How thick the shades close round ! My boy ! 

my boy ! 
Where art thou in this gloom ? 

Gar. Let us go hence ! 
This is a dreadful moment ! 

Go7i. Hush ! — what saidst thou ? 
Now let me look on him ! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist which v\Taps us .'' 

Gar, I behold — 
O for a thousand Spaniards ! to rush down 

Gon. Thou seest — My heart stands still to 
hear thee speak ! 
— There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 'twere the dead of night ! 

Gar. The hosts have closed 
Around the spot in stillness. Through the 

spears. 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not ! 
^ But now 

Gon. He bade me keep mine eye upon him. 
And all is darkness round me ! — Now ? 



Gar. A sword, 
A sword springs upward, like a lightning burst, 
Through the dark serried mass ! Its cold-blua 

glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 'tis vanished — hark ! 
Gon. I heard it, yes ! — I heard the dull dead 
sound 
That heavily broiie the silence! Didst tho«i 

speak ? 
— I lost thy words — coms; nearer ! 

Gar. 'Twas — 'tis past ! — 
The sword fell then ! 

Her. (loith exultatmu) Flow forth, thou noUa 
blood ! . 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Unchecked and brightly forth ! Thou kinglj 

stream ! 
Blood of our heroes ! blood of martyi'dom 1 
Which through so many warrior hearts hast 

poured 
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free off'ering ! Bathe the 

land, — 
But there thou shalt not sink ! Our very air 
Shall take thy coloring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous, 
With battle hues of thee ! And thy deep voice, 
Rising above them to the judgment seat. 
Shall call a burst of gathered vengeance down, 
To sweep th' oppressor from us ! For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er ! 

Gon. {endeavoring to rouse himself.) 'Tis all a 

dream ! 

There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 

That fair boy's graceful head ! Why look you 

thus? 

Abd. {pointing to Carlos.) Christian 1 e'en yet 

thou hast a son ! 
Gon. E'en yet ! 

Car. My father, take me from these fearful men. 
Wilt thou not save me, father ? 

Gon. {attempting to unsheathe his sword.) Is th« 
strength 
From mine arm shivered ? Garcias, follow me 1 
Gar. Whither, my chief.' 
Gon, Why we can die as well 
On yonder plain — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require, 
Sooner than e'en this anguish ! Life is oest 
Thro-v^Ti from us in such moments. 

[ Voices Jieard at a distanc* 
Her. Hush ! what strain 
Floats on the wind ? 

Gar. 'Tis the Cid's battle song ! 
What marvel hath been wrought ? 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



347 



Voices approaching heard in chorus. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshalled his dark array ! 

XiMENA enters, followed by the Citizens, 
with the Banner. 
Xim. Is it too late ? — My father, these are 
men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner ! Is their zeal too late ? 
— O, there's a fearful history on thy brow ! 
What hast thou seen ? 
Gar. It is not all too late. 
Xim. My brothers'! 
Her. All is well. 

(To Garcias.) Hush ! wouldst thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness ? 
1 say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue ! 

Xim. Bless me, O my father ! 
And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers, 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Gon. (falliiig tipon her neck.) Hath aught been 
spared ? 
Am I not all bereft ? Thou'rt left me stiU ! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me stUl ! 
Farewell ! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena ! 

Xim. Fare thee well ! 
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field. 
The voice is hushed that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

He?: Peace ! no more ! 
This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears ! Be of strong heart ! 
Give me che banner ! Swell the song again ! 
Cits. Era night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 
To-morrow for the dead ! 

[Exeunt omnes. 

Scene VIH. — Before the Altar of a Church. 

Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elm. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang thy 
ways, 
thou mysterious Heaven ! It cannot be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath 
To Durst upon me, through the lifting up 



Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's floweri 
But wreathed a cup of trembling ; and the love. 
The boundless love, my spirit was formed to bear. 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy ! I never looked 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seemed glowing with their quiet blessedness, 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sensa 
Of earth, and its pale changes ; e'en like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorioui 

dreams — 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade ! How have 

I shrunk 
From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortality, 
TiU my heart fainted 'midst their smUes 1 — 

their smiles ! 
Where are those glad looks now ? — Could they 

go down 
With aU their joyous light, that seemed not 

earth's, 
To the cold grave ? My children ! — righteous 

Heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye* 
That this should be the hour ! 

Ximena enters. 

Xim. They are gone forth 
Unto the rescue ! — strong in heart and hope. 
Faithful, though few ! — My mother, let thy 

prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field foi 

Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons ! For me, my part is done ! 
The flame, which dimly might have lingered yet 
A little while, hath gathered all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once. And it is well ! 
The shadows are around me : to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Elm. My child ! what dream 
Is on thy soul ? Even now thine aspect wean 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Xim. Death's ! 

Elm. Away ! 
Thine eye hath starry clearness ; and tl y cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
Than tinged its earliest flower ! 

Xim. It well may be ! 



S48 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



There are far deeper and far Tvarmer hues 
Than those which draw their coloring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope ! 
Elm. Nay, speak not thus ! 
There's that about thee shining which would 

send 
E'en through mij heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Were't not for these sad words. The dim cold 

air 
Ani solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale-gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! — O, no ! this is not 

death ! 
Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when ho comes 
As a deliverer ? He hath many forms — 
They should not all be fearful ! If his caU 
Be but our gathering to that distant land, 
For whose sweet waters we ha-^ pined with 

thirst, 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely ? Mother, I depart ! — 
Be it thy comfort, in the after days. 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elm. Distract me not 
With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
When thou art gone ? — thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile. 
Passed from my path ! Alas ! even now thine 

eye 
Is changed — thy cheek is fading ! 

Xim. Ay, the clouds 
Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight ; 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness ! It may soothe 
Thy woes, my mother ! if I tell thee now 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 
Elm. Thine! 
Xim. Rejoice 
For her that, when the garland of her life 
Wjis blighted, and the springs of hope were 

dried. 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time. 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
To wither ; sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light 
That dimmed the rest forever ! 



Elm. How is this ? 
My child, what mean'st thou ? 
Xim. Mother ! I have loved. 
And been beloved ! The sunbeam of an hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts, 
Went out and left them colorless. 'Tis past — 
And what remains on earth ? The rainbow mist, 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my 

sight 
Is cleared to look on all things as they are ! — 
But this is far too mournful ! Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! — 
Therefore I would go hence ! 
Elm. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Xim. O, pardon, pardon that I veiled 
My thoughts from thee ! But thou hadst woes 

enough, 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had 

need 
Of more than mortal strength ! For I had 

scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst the 

rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! I looked again : 
The strife grew dark beneath me ; but his plume 
Waved free above the lances. Yet again — 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling 

o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted, 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! — 
And then — at last — I hurried to the gate, 
And met him there ! — I met him ! — on his 

shield. 
And with his cloven helm, and shivered sword. 
And dark hair steeped in blood ! They bore 

him past : 
Mother ! — I saw his face ! O, such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth. 
The pride of woman's eye ! 

Elm. Sweet daughter, peace ! 
Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy 

frame 

Xim. There wiU be peace ere long. I shut 

my heart. 
Even as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief. 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the houi 
Is come, when that, which would have pierced 

thy 80\U, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



341 



Shall be its liealin^ baim. O, weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Elm. Must it be ? 
Art thou indeed to leave me ? 

Xim. (^exultingly.') Be tnou glad ! 
1 say, rejoice above thy Ikvored child ! 
Joy, for the soldier when his rteld is fought, 
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage task 
Is closed at eve ! — But most ot all for her, 
Who, when her life had changed its glittering 

robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on, 
Cast down its weight and slept ! 

Elm. Alas ! thine eye 
Is wandering — yet how brightly ! Is this death ? 
Or some high wondrous vision ? Speak, my 

child ! 
How is it with thee now ? 

Xim. {wildly.) I see it still ! 
'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high, 
My father's banner ! Hear'st thou not a sound ? 
The trumpet of Castile ! Praise, praise to 

Heaven ! 
— Now may the w*»ary rest ! — Be still ! — Who 

calls 

The night so fearful ? [She dies. 

Elm. No ! she is not dead ! 
Ximena ! — speak to me ! O, yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound. 
Ere the deep silence fall ! — What, is all 

hushed ? — 
No, no ! — it cannot be ! How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us ? But is this 
Her wonted look ? — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty ! Speak, Ximena ! 
Speak ! My heart dies withia me ! She is 

gone, 
With all her blessed smiles ! My child ! my 

chUd! 
Where art thou ? — Where is that which an- 
swered me, 
From thy soft- shining eyes ? — Hush ! doth she 

move? 
One light lock seemed to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbbed beneath ; — 'twas but the 

voice 
Of my despair that stirred it ! She is gone ! 

\She throws herself on the body. 

Gonzalez enters wounded. 

Elm. {rising as he approaches.) I must not now 
be scorned ! — No, not a look, 



A whisper of reproach ! Behold my woe ! 
Thou canst not scorn me now ! 

Gon. Hast thou heard aW ? 

Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid kei 
head. 
And passed away to rest ! Behold her there. 
Even such as death hath made her ! ' 

Gon. {bending over Ximena's body.) Thou srt 
gone 
A little while before me, my child \ 
Why should the traveller weep to part with 

those. 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised 

land, 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away. 
And spread his couch beside them ? 

Elm. Must it be 
Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had its bright place amongst us ! Is this all 
Left for the years to come ? We will not stay t 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gon. {still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou'it 
laid 
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child 1 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb ! O, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 
Back unto Him that gave it ! And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 

Elm. Hadst thou seen 
The look with which she passed ! 

Gon. (still bending over her.) ,Why, 'tis almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart ! No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
That quenched young life by violence ! We'va 

seen 
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught so gently gathered hence \ 

— O, man leaves other traces ! 

Elm. {suddenly starting.) It returns 
On my bewildered soul ! Went ye not fcrlii 
Unto the rescue ? And thou'rt here alone I 

— Where are my sons ? 

Gon. {solemnly.) We were too late ! 

Elm. Too late ! 
Hast thou nought else to tell me ? 

Gon. I brought back 
From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And mv own death wound. 



1 " La voilk, telle que la mort nous I'a faite." — Bosiuar 
Oraisons Fandbrea. 



150 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Elm. Thine! 

Go7i. Another hour 
Bbnll hush its tlivobs forever. I go hence, 
And with mo 

Elm. No ! man could not lift his hands — 
Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gon. I /lave no sons. 

Elm. What hast thou said ? 

Go7i. That now there lives not one 
To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elm. {throioing herself on the ground, and 
spealiing in a loxo hurried voice.) 
In one brief hour, all gone ! — and such a death ! 
I see their blood gush forth ! — their graceful 

heads ! 
— Take the dark vision from me, O my God ! 
And such a death for them ! I was not there ! 
Tliey were but mine in beauty and in joy, 
Not in that mortal anguish ! All, all gone ! — 
Why should I struggle more ? — What is this 

Power, 
Against Avhose might, on all sides pressing us. 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail spirits prostrate ? 

{After a long pause.") Now I know 
Tliy hand, my God ! — and they are soonest 

crushed 
That most withstand it ! I resist no more. 

\She rises. 
A light, a light springs up from grief and death. 
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried ! 

Gon. Then I may still 
Fix my last look on thee in holy love. 
Parting, but yet with hope ! 

Elm. {falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive ? 
O, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own. 
And borne the pang in silence ! I have cast 
Thy life's fair honor, in my wild despair. 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves. 
Whence thou hast snatched it back, to bear 

fi-om earth. 
All stainless on thy breast. Well hast thou 

done — 
But I — cnnst thou forgive? 

Gon. Within this hour 
I've stood upon that verge whence mortals fall, 
And learned how 'tis with one whose sight 

grows dim. 
And whose foot trembles on the gulfs dark side. 
Death purifies all feeling : we will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elm. Death ! And thou too 



Art on thy way ! O, joy for thee, high heart ! 
Glory and joy for thee ! The day is closed. 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle toils, though many 

swords 
Have entered thine own soul ! But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair, 
And I am left far distanced in the race. 
The lonely one of earth ! Ay, this is just. 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yid cl 
Thy spirit unto God ! 

Gon. Thou art ! thou art ! 
O, a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness, 
Even in the presence of eternal things, 
Wearing their chastened beauty all undimmed. 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! We are here, 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth ; and meet it is 
For such a witness, in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of Death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. "Who are they, 
That in one path have journeyed, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close ? 

A Citizen eiiters hastily. 

Cit. The Moors ! the ISIoors ! 

Gon. How ! is the city stormed ? 
O righteous Heaven ! for this I looked not yet ! 
Hath all been done in vain ? Why, then, 'tij 

time 
For prayer, and then to rest ! 

Cit. The sun shall set, 
And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, 
To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls 
The Paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gon. Then my place 
Is here no longer. I had hoped to die 
E'en by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires ; but this Avas not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour, 
And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife ! 
Thou mother of ray children — of the dead - 
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Ehn. No, not farewell ! My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side. 
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand. 
As one on whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Go/1. I thank thee. Heaven ! \ 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



351 



That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given, to temper hours hke this 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

{To Elmina.) We will not part 
But with the spirit's parting. 

Elm. One farewell 
To her^ that, mantled with sad loveliness, 
Doth slumber at our feet ! My blessed child ! 
O, in th}' heart's affliction thou wert strong, 
And holy courage did pervade thy woe, 
As light the troubled waters ! Be at peace ! 
Thou Avhose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! And thy life 
E'en then was struck and withering at the core ! 
Farewell ! thy j^arting look hath on me fallen. 
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been. My sotd is 

hushed ; 
For a stiU sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast 

not lived 
In vain ! My child, farewell ! 

Gon. Surely for thee 
Death had no sting, Ximena ! We are blest 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass. 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower ! 
In token of th' undying love and hope 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt. 

Scene IX. — The walls of the city. 
Hernandez — A few citizens gathered round him. 

Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which 

their lives 
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre» 
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the 

brand. 
E'en from that shrine of quiet love to hear 
The flame which gavd f ^eir temples and their 

homes 
In ashes to the windy ! They have done this, 
Makif.g a blasted voic' vi here once the sun 
Looked upon lovely d A'cUings ; and from earth 
Razing aU record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath snrung, age faded, misery wept, 
And frail h'-.manity knelt before her God ; 
They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs 
Who have left man such lessons ! And these 

things 
Mide 3'^our owr hiUs their witnesses ! The sky. 



Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith, 
Thus proudly honored ! Be ye not outdone 
By the departed ! Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flushed hope ; and we may die, 
Ijaughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me ! 
And thou, Valencia ! triumph in thy fate — 
The ruin, not the yoke ; and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Cits. We'll follow thee ! 
Alas for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we reared our children ! But away ! 
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o'er our fanei 

Voice, {from a toioer on the walls.) Succors ! 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Cits, {rushing to the spot.) It is even so ! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved ! 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Voice, {from the tower.) Line after line ol 
spears. 
Lance after lance, upon th' horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirt the plain. In faith^ a noble host ! 

Another Voice. The Moor hath turned him 
from our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain ! 

Cits, {shouting.) Castile ! Castile ! 

Gonzalez enters, supported hy Elmina and 
a citizen. 

Gon. What shouts of joy are these ? 

Her. Hail ! chieftain, hail ! 
Thus, even in death, 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! Behold, our God hata 

heard. 
And armed himself with vengeance ! Lo ! thej 

come ! 
The lances of Castile ! 

Gon. I knew, I knew 
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God ! forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! My blood and tear* 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth. 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Elm. And I, too, bless thy name. 
Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 

God ! — thou God of chastening ! 
Voice, {from the tower.) They move on ! 

1 see the royal banner in the air, 
With its emblazoned towers ! 



352 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Gon. Go, bring ye forth 
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here, 
To stream above me, for an answering sign 
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still. What see you now ? 

Her. I see a kingdom's might upon its path, 
Moving, in terrible magnificence. 
Unto revenge and victory ! With the flash 
Of knightly swords, upspringing from the 

ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep. 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind, 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it 

comes — 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Gon. I hear it now. 
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder showers upon the forest paths. 

Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that 
sound ; 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's. 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gon. Hark ! how the wind 
Swells proudly with the battle march of Spain ! 
Now the heart feels its power ! A little while 
Grant me to live, my God ! What pause is this ? 

Her. A deep and dreadful one ! The serried 
files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

Voices heard without, chanting. 
Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die ! 

Elm. {to Gonzalez.) It is the death hymn o'er 
thj- daughter's bier ! 
But I am calm ; and e'en like gentle winds. 
That music through the stillness of my heart 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gon. O, well those solemn tones 
Accord with such an hour ; for all her life 
Rreathed of a hero's soul ! 
A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain.] 



Her. Now, now they close ! Hark ! what a 

dull, dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war shout ! I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given — 
Lo ! they have placed their shields before theil 

hearts. 
And lowered their lances with the streamers on, 
And on their steeds bend forward ! God for 

Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this ! 'Tis not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry ; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itseK ! 
Gon. O, raise me up. 
That I may look upon the noble scene ! — 
It will not be ! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight ! Whence rose that 

shout, 
As in fierce triumph ? 

Her. {clasping his hands.) Must I look on this? 
The banner sinks — 'tis taken ! 
Gon. Whose ? 
Her. Castile's ! 
Gon. God of Battles ! 
Elm. Calm thy noble 1. ?^rt ; 
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Her. Cheer thee yet ! 
Our knights have spurred to rescue. There is 

now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! I see tall 

plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide. 
Swayed by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood. 
Many a false corselet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! Now, shout for Santiago, 

shout ! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down 
With their helmed riders ! Who, but One, can 

tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling-on of furious multitudes ! 

Gon. Thou'rt silent ! — Seest thou more ? My 

soul grows dark. 
Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, 
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze ! 



t can but tell thee how tall spears are crossed, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighter^ with the stroke ! But round the spot 
Where, like a storm-felled mast, our standard 

sank. 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gon. Where is that'spot ? 

Ser. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
<n calm and stately grace. 

Gon. There, didst thou say ? 
Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died : my children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 

Elm. They perished there ! 
— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Even on that place of death ! O Merciful ! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Her. {xoith sudden exultation.^) Who is he. 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm, 
And the gold-broidered mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, which from his breastplate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance ? 

Gon. {eagerhj) Didst thou say the cross ? 

Her. On his mailed bosom shines a broad white 
cross. 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow wreath. 

Gon. That should be — 

Her. The king ! 
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late, 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross. 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight ? ' 

Gon. {springing up joyfully.) My king ! my 
king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! My noble king ! 
And thou art there ! That I might look once 

more 
Upon thy face ! But yet I thank thee. Heaven ! 
That thou hast sent him, fi.om my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city ! 

[He sinks back into Elmina's arms. 

Her. He hath cleared 
&. pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass, 

1 This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the 
last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross 
which tiiat warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast 
when he went to battle, and had it made into one for him- 
self, " becausf of the faith which he had, that through it he 
4iouU obtain the rfcrrsry " — Southe y's Chronicle oftlie Cid. ' 



E'en as a gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! 'Tis redeemed — 
The castled banner ; it is flung once more, 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ; 
There seems a wavering through the Psyniin 

hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — now, now rejoice 1 

Go7t. What hast thou seen ? 

Her. Abdullah falls ! He falls ! 
The man of blood ! — the spoiler ! — he hath sunK 
In our king's path ! Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez ! 

They give way, 
The Crescent's van is broken ! On the hills, 
And the dark pine woods, may the infldel 
Call vainly, in his agony of fear. 
To cover him from vengeance ! Lo ! they fly ! 
They of the forest and the wUderness 
Are scattered, e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 
Woe to the sons of Afric ! Let- the plains, 
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas. 
Take their dead unto them ! — that blood shall 

wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gon. (attempting to raise himself.) Set me free ! 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle field ! 

Her. O, blest in death ! 
Chosen of Heaven, farewell ! Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Goit. Now, charge once more ! 
God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air ! Shout forth, " Castile ! " 
The day is ours ! I go ; but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies. 

Elm. Look on me j^et ! 
Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy 

voice 
Enter my soul no more ! Thine eye is fixed — 
Now is my life uprooted — and 'tis well. 

A Sound of triumjjhant music is heard, and many 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter. 

A Cit. Hush your triumphal sounds, although 
ye come 
E'en as deliverers ! But the noble dead, 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elm. (7-ising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile I 
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! How, know yb 
not 



W4 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



That all arrayed for triumph, crowned and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
E'en now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ! — He will not 

hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad ? 

Her. Lilt ye the dead, 
And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudl}', as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb wherein 
His warrior sires are gathered. 

[ They raise ike body. 

Elm. Ay, 'tis thus 
Thou shouldst be honored ! And I follow thee. 
With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 
To that last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love, 
Shall thence draw strength for all things ; till 

the God 
Whoso hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chastened soul. 
Call it once more to thine ! 

{To the Castilians.) Awake, I say ! 

Tambour and trumpet, wake ! And let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral 

peal. 
— So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt omnes. 

[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE " SIEGE OF VALENCIA." 

" Of ' The Siege of Valencia ' we say little, for we by no 
means consider it as the happiest of Mrs. Hemans's efforts. 
Not that it does not contain, nay, abound with fine passages ; 
but the whole wants vigor, coherence, and compression. 
The story is meagre, and the dialogue too diffuse." — The 
Rev. Dn. Morehead in Constable's Magazine fur Septem- 
ber, 1823. 

" The ' Tales and Historic Scenes,' ' The Sceptic,' ' The 
Welsh y jlodies,' ' The Siege of Valencia,' and ' The Ves- 
pers of Palermo,' " says Delta, " may all be referred to this 
epoch of her literary career, and are characterized by beau- 
ties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference to the 
two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs. 
Ilemans was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound 
V ith high and magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not 
easy to adapt her fine taste and unif(jrmly high-toned senti- 
ment to tlie varied aspects of life and character necessary to 
thi Eurcess of scenic exhibition ; and she must have been 
aware of the difficulties that surrounc'.ed her in that path. 
If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful trage- 
dies, they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and 
rare pnetic beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from 
the wliole range of Mrs. Hemans's writings, to select any 
thing inore exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, 
or more energetically written, than the Monk's tale in ' The 
Biege i f Valencia.' The descri|)tion of his son, in which he 
iwe"= with i)arental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and 
accompiishinent.s — of bis horror at that son's renunciation 
of the Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel — and 
*f the twilight encounter, in which he took the life of his 



own giving— are all worked out in the loftiest npirita 

poetry." — Biographical Memoir, pp. 16, 17. 

" ' The Siege of Valencia,' ' The Last Constantine,' an« 
other poems, were published in the course of the year 1824 
This volume was marked by more distinct evidences of 
originality than any of Mrs. Hemans's previous works. 
None of her after poems contain finer bursts of strong, fer- 
vid, indignant poetry than ' The Siv^ge of Valencia ; iu 
story — a thrilling conflict between maternal love and th« 
inflexible spirit of chivalrous honor — atTorded to her an 
admirable opportunity of giving utterance to the two master 
interests of her mind. It is a tale that will bear a second 
reading — though, it must be confessed that, as in the case 
of ' The Vespers of Palejmo,' somewhat of a nion(itony of 
coloring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged employ- 
ment of a lofty and enriched phr-tseology, which would 
have gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. 
Ximena, too, all glowing and heroic as she is, stiiring up 
the sinking hearts of the besieged citizens with her battle 
song of the (_ id, and dying as it were of that strain of tri- 
umph—is too sjiiritual, too sau.tly, wh<illy to carry away 
the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her splendid, 
high-toned devotion — our tears are called forth by the grief 
of her mother, the stately EIniina, broken down, but not 
degraded, by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at 
a treachery she is too noble wholly to cany through. The 
scenes with her husband are admirable ; some of her 
speeches absolutely startle us with their passion and inten- 
sity — the following, for instance : — 

' Love I love I there are soft smiles and gentle wordj,' etc." 
— Chorley's Memoriala of Mrs. Hemans, iip. 110-112. 
" ' The Siege of Valencia ' is a dramatic poem, but not 
intended for representation. The story is extremely simple. 
The Moors, who besiege Valencia, take the two sons of the 
governor, Gonzalez, captive, as they come to visit their 
father, and now the ransom demanded for them is the sur- 
render of the city : they are to die if the place is not yielded 
up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their 
sister, are the remaining members of a family to which so 
dreadful an option is submitted. The poem is one of the 
highest merit. The subject is of great dignity, being con- 
nected with the defence of Spain against the Moors ; and at 
the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering u suc- 
cession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to 
occur in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the 
daughter is heroic, the mother falters. She finds her way 
to the Moorish camp, sees her children, forms her plan for 
betrajing the town, and then is not able to conceal her grief 
and her design from her husband. He immeiiiately sends a 
defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and be- 
headed, a sorlic is made from the besieged city : finally, the 
King of Spain arrives to the rescue ; tlie wrongs of Gon- 
zalez are avenged ; he himself (lies in victory ; and the 
poem closes with a picture of his wife, moved by the strong- 
est grief, of which she is yet able to restrain the expression. 
The great excellence of the poem lies in the description of 
the struggle between the consciousness of duty and inatenial 
fondness. We believe none but a mother could have writ- 
ten it." — Professor Norton, in JVortk .American Review 
for April, 1897. 

" The graceful powers of Mrs. Hemans in the same walk 

which had been trodden so grandly by Aliss Baillie, were 

manifested in her ' Vespers of Palermo, and her ' Siege of 

Valencia.' The latter is a noble work, and as a poen< ranlca 

I with her highest productions, thougii it is filled too uniforni- 

I ly perhaps with the spirtt of her own mind, to be very di»- 

I tinctively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of liw 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MA 



nuriety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted 
nature, which belongs to few among mankind, and to them, 
perhaps, only in stran-^e and terrible crises. The steadfast- 
ness of the paternal chieftain, the sterner enthusiasm of the 
priest, the mother's maddening affection, and tlie gentle 
heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with indi- 
viduality, but it is the individuality of a common great- 
ness, the apparent appropriation to many of an essence really 
the same in all. In her own heart the poetess found this 
pure essence ; and when she created her Christian patriots 
at Valencia, she but translated herself into a new dialect of 
manners and motives. Of this one elevated material she 
has, however, made fine dramatic use. The language, while 
faultless in its measured music, has passion to swell its ca- 
dences ; tlie loftiness is never languid ; and the flow of the 
verse is skilfully broken into the animated abruptness suit- 
able to earnest dialogue. There are many, too, of those 
sudden glimpses of profound truth in which the energy of 
passion seems to force its rude way, in a moment, into re- 
gions of the heart that philosophy would take hours to sur- 
vey with its technical language. Thus, when the iron- 
beiuted monk is telling the story of his son's disgrace, — 

'Elmina. nedied? 
Hernandez. Not sol 
— Death I Death I Why, earth should be a paradise, 
To make that name so fearful 1 Had he died 
With his young fame about him for a ehroud, 



I had not learned the might of agony 

To bring proud natures low I No 1 lie fell oif 

Why do I tell thee this ? What right bust thou 
To learn liow passed the glory from my house? 
Yet listen. He forsook me ! He that was 
As miue own soul forsook me I — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires I — ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the intidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And, for the dark «ye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God I Now, talk of death I ' 

" The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs ii. 
moulded in the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilder 
nient of the mother betrayed into guilt by over])owering 
affection, and the death of the beautiful enthusiast Ximena, 
are sketched in a style of excellence little inferior ; and th? 
peculiar powers of Mrs. Hemans's poetry . less dramatic thau 
declamatoiy, have full scope in the spirit-stirring address of 
the latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she lifts in her 
own ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts th» 
sublime legend of his martial burial. Spain and its rt 
mances formed the darling theme of Mrs. Hemans's muse 
and before leaving the subject, she gives us her magnifice 
series of ballads, the ' Songs of the Cid,' which meet us a 
the close of the drama, as if to form an appropriate choru 
to the whole." — William Archer Butler, Iiitroductoi 
M'otice to JVationnZ Lyrics and Songs for Music. Dublin 
1838.1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SONG. 



FOUNDED OK Alf ABABIAK ANECDOTB. 

Away ! though still thy sword is red 

With lifeblood from my sire. 
No drop of thine may now be shed 

To quench my bosom's fire ; 
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest 
Than dews upon the desert's breast. 

I've sought thee 'midst the sons of men, 
Through the wide city's fanes ; 

I've sought thee by the lion's den, 
O'er pathless, boundless plains ; 

No step that marked the burning waste, 

But mine its lonely course hath traced. 

Thy name hath been a baleful spell, 

O'er my dark spirit cast ; 
No thought may dream, no Avords may tell, 

What there unseen hath passed : 
This withered cheek, this faded eye, 
Are secl» i ^ th?e — behold ! and fly ! 



Hath not my cup for thee been poured 
Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? 

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored 
Within my dwelling laid ? 

What though unknown — yet who shall rest 

Secure — if not the Arab's guest .' 

Haste thee ! and leave my threshold floor 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let not thy presence tempt me more, 

— Man may not thus endure ! 
Away ! I bear a fettered arm, 
A heart that burns — but must not harm. 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle 1 

The wind in speed subdue ! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, 

As vengeance shall pursue ; 
And hate, like love, in parting pain, 
Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again 1 

To-morrow — and th' avenger's hand. 

The warrior's dart is free ! 
E'en now, no spot in all thy land, 

Save this, had sh-^ltered thee ; 



-/r 



Let blood the monarch's hall profane, 
The Arab's tent must bear no staia ! 

Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast 

Avoid thy secret Avay ! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past, 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day ! 
I would not that thy doom should be 
Assigned by Heaven to aught but me. 



ALP HORN SONG. 

TBAirSLATED FROM THE OEP.MAN OF TIECK. 

What dost thou here, brave Swiss ? 
Jforgett'st thou thus thy native clime — 
The lovely land of thy bright spring time ? 
The land of thy home, with its free delights. 
And fresh green valleys and mountain heights ? 

Can the stranger's jield thee bliss ? 

What welcome cheers thee now ? 
Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around ? 
Where are the peaks, with their snow wreaths 

crowned ? 
Where is the song, on the wild winds borne. 
Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn, 

Or the peasant's fearless brow ? 

But thy spirit is far away ! 
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes. 
Where the white Alps look through the sunny 

skies, 
With the low scnn-cabins, and pastures free, 
And the sparkling blue of the glacier sea. 

And the summits clothed with day ! 

Back, noble child of TeU! 
Back to the wild and the silent glen. 
And the frugal board of peasant men ! 
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here ? — 
Away ! not a true Swiss heart is near, 

Asrainst thine own to swell ! 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 

[The beajtifiil constellation of the Cross is seen only in 
the southern hemisphere. The Collovving lines are supposed 
to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South 
America.] 

►N the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannas in boundless magnificence 
spread, 



And bearing sublimely their snow wreaths OB 

high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir tree waves o'er me, the fireflies' red light 
With its quick- glancing splendor illumines the 

night ; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy loadstars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I 

turn, 
Bright Cross of the South ! and beholding thee 

shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and "vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions th,at see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazoned in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheered by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,' 

When first his bright banner of faith was un- 
furled ; 

Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their 
prow 

Made the billows the path of their glory, wert 
thou. 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest, 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride. 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a g'oide. 

Shine on ! — my own land is a far-distant spot. 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not j 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 

may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 

thee! 

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing 

shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine ; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with theft 

X Constantine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



35? 



THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 

I LAY upon the solemn plain, 

And by the funeral mound, 
Where those who died not there in vain, 

Their place of sleep had found. 

"Iwas silent where the free blood gushed, 
When Persia came arrayed — 

So many a voice had there been hushed, 
So many a footstep stayed. 

[ slumbered on the lonely spot 

So sanctified by death ; 
T slumbered — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, 
They rose — the chainless dead — 

A.11 armed they sprang, in joy, in power, 
Up from their grassy bed. 

1 saw their spears, on that red field. 

Flash as in time gone by — 
(/based to the seas without his shield, 

I saw the Persian fly. 

I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 

Called to another fight : 
From visions of our glorious past, 

Who doth not wake in might ? 



rO MISS F. A. L., ON HER BIRTHDAY 

What wish can Friendship form for thee, 
What brighter star invoke to shine ? — 

Thy path from every thorn is free, 
And every rose is thine ! 

Life hath no purer joy in store. 

Time hath no sorrow to efface ; 
Hope cannot paint one blessing more 

Than memory can retrace ! 

Some hearts a boding fear might own, 
Had Fate to them'th.y portion given, 

Since many an ej'e, by tears alone. 
Is taught to gaze on heaven ! 

And there are virtues oft concealed. 
Till roused by anguish from repose ; 

As odorous trees no balm will yield, 
Till from theu wounds it flows. 



But fear not thoxi the lesson fraught 

With Sorrow's chastening power to know; 

Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught 
" To melt at others' woe." 

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, 
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth ; 

Ah ! why should Virtue dread the storm. 
If sunbeams prove her worth ? 



WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF 
THE ALBUM OF THE SAME. 

What first should consecrate as thine 
The volume destined to be fraught 

With many a sweet and playful line, 
With many a pure and pious thought ? 

It should be, what a loftier strain 
Perchance less meetly would impart ; 

What never yet was poured in vain, — 
The blessing of a grateful heart — 

For kindness, which hath soothed the houi 
Of anxious grief, of weary pain, 

And oft, with its beguiling power. 
Taught languid hope to smile again. 

Long shall that fervent blessing rest 

On thee and thine ; and, heavenwards borm, 

Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, 
As thou wouldst bear to all that mourn. 



TO THE SAME; 

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHEE. 

Sat not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear. 
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 
More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls 
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls 
Awakes some purer hope, ordained to rise. 
By earthly sorrow strengthened for the skifcs ; 
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love, 
With its lost treasure, seeks a home — above. 

But grief will claim her hour, — and He whos« 

eye 
Looks pitying down on nat\ire's agony. 
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep. 
Who bids us hope, forbids us not *o weep ! 



He, too, hath wept — and sacred be the woes 
Once borne by Him, their inmost source who 

knows, 
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread 

stroke 
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke ? 
O, well may those, yet lingering here, deplore 
The vanished light, that cheers their path no 

more ! 
Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt. 
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt ! 
By fire and storm. Heaven tries the Christian's 

worth. 
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, 
Where still too long, with beings born to die. 
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost, 
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the 

most. 
Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy 

gloom. 
Her star in glory rises fi-om the tomb. 
Mounts tp the dayspring, leaves the cloud below. 
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 
Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubt, suspense are fled — 
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead ! 
The final ordeal of the soul is past. 
And the pale brow is sealed to Heaven at last ! ' 

And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature, 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure ; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence 

blessed 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast, 
Where Peace a holy dwelling-place had found, 
Whence beamed her smile benignantly around ; 
Thou, that to bosoms widowed and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left, 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be 
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee ! 

cherished and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell ! 
So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone 
Could make more perfect happiness thine own. 
He came : thy cup of joy, serenely bright, 
Full to the last, still flowed in cloudless light ; 
He came — an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted — Immortality ! 

1 " Till we have sealed the servants of Gfod in their fore- 
jeads " — Revetatien. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF GARCILASO 
DE LA VEGA. 

DiviXE Eliza — since the sapphire sky 
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet 
Sandalled with immortality — O, why 
Of me forgetful ? Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on the time, when I shall see 
The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
And smile that I am free ? 

In the third circle of that happy land. 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 
And other vales, and a new shady shore, 
When I may rest, and ever in my view 
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sundered more ? 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO 

O, PURE and bless6d soul. 

That, from thy clay's control 
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere 

And from thy crystal throne 

Look'st down, with smiles alone. 
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear ; 

Thy happy feet have trod 

The starry-spangled road, 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding ; 

And from their erring track 

Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 

O, who shall Death withstand — 

Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine ! 

When shall our ears again 

Drink in so sweet a strain. 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine ! 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE 
CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA. 

IBANSLATED FEOM THI FIFTH BOOK OF THK LUtlAD Or 
CAMOEMg. 

Propitious winds our daring bark impelled 
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld, 
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood 
Watching the prow glide swiftly through thi 
flood. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



359 



High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast, 
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast : 
Awful, immense, it came ! so thick, so drear, 
Its gloomy grandeur chilled our hearts with fear. 
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, 
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore. 

Thrilled with amaze, I cried, " Supernal 

Power ! 
WLat mean the omens of this threatening hour r 
What the dread mystery of this ocean clime. 
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime ? " 
Scarce had I spoke, when lo ! a mighty form 
Towered through the gathering shadows of the 

storm ; 
Of rude proportions and gigantic size, 
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk 

eyes; 
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew. 
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue. 
Well may I tell thee that his limbs and height, 
lu vast dimensions and stupendous might. 
Surpassed that wonder, once the sculptor's boast, 
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. 
Deep was his voice — in hollow tones he spoke, 
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke ; 
And but that form to view, that voice to hear, 
Spread o'er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills 

of fear. 

'• O daring band ! " he cried, " far, far more 

bold 
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told ; 
Adventurous spirits ! whom no bounds of fear 
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce career ; 
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main, 
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign. 
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time, 
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime : 
Since thus yo pierce the veil by Nature thrown 
O'er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown, 
Ne'er yet revealed to aught of mortal birth, 
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatched in 

worth — 
Hear fro:n my lips what chastisements of fate, 
Rash, bold intruders ! on your course await ! 
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue, 
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must 

yet subdue. 

" Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless 
helm 
Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm. 
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, 
And guard with storms my own terrific shore ! 



And on the fleet, which £rst presumes to brave 
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, 
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear 
Have time to prophesy destruction near ! 

" Yes, desperate band ! if right my hopes di- 
vine, 
Revenge, fierce, full, unequalled, shall be mine 1 
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous 

way — 
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey ! 
And your proud vessels, j'ear by year, shall find 
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind) 
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm. 
Death shall be deemed misfortune's mildest form. 

" Lo ! where my victim comes ! — of nobla 
birth. 
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth. 
With her,' his best beloved, in all her charms, 
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms ! 
From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, 
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! 
O, dark the fate that calls them from their home 
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 
Aud ster.".ly saves them from a billowy tomb, 
For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom ! 

— Yes ! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain. 
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering paii ; 
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear. 
From her, the soft, the idolized, the fair ; 
Shall see those limbs, of nature's finest mould, 
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold, 
And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land. 
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand. 

" Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold 
Who live through toils unequalled and untold ! 
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, 
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die ! 
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense. 
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense ; 
Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes. 
Their struggling spirits mount from anguish t« 
repose ! " 

As the dark phantom sternly thus portravftd 
Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, — 
" Who then art tJwu ? " I cried. " Dread being, 

tell 
Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell ! ' 

— With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, 
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied : 

1 Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, and his wife, Leonora de S4 



360 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



" Behold the genius of that secret shore 
Where the wind rages and the billows roar — 
That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, 
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, aU unknown ! 
Far to the southern pole my throne extends, 
That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. 
Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, 
Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." 

Thurf having said, with strange, terrific cries, 
The giant spectre vanished from our eyes ; 
In sable clouds dissolved — while far around, 
Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells 
resound ! 



A DIRGE. 

Weep for the early lost ! — 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down. 

E'en when life promised most ! 
How many hopes have withered ! They that bow 
To Heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now. 

Did the young mother's eye 
Behold her child, and close upon the day, 
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply ? 
— Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn ! 
O. strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 

For there is hushed on earth 
A voice of gladness — there is veiled a face. 
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place 

By the once joyous hearth : 
A smile hath passed, which filled its home with 

light, 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though nature o'er th' untimely 

grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave ; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on. 
When they, whose glance unlocked its founts, 
are gone ! 

But glory from the dust. 
And praise to Him, the Merciful, for those 
Un whose bright memory love may still repose 

With an immortal trust ! 
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, 
Buch hope as she hath left — "the pure in heart! " 

1823. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE 

TO VENUS. 

BOOK I., ODE XXX. 

O, LEAVE thine own loved isle, 
Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores 

And here in Glycera's fair temple smile. 
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. 

Waft here thy glowing son ; 
Bring Hermes ; let the Nymphs thy path sur> 
round. 

And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be won. 
And the light Graces with the zone unbound. 



TO HIS ATTENDANT. 

BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII. 

I HATE the Persian's costly privle : 

The wreaths with bands of linden tied - 

These, boy, delight me not ; 
Nor where the lingering roses bide 

Seek thou for me the spot. 
For me be nought but myrtle twined — 
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind 

Alike thy brows and mine. 
While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined 

Beneath th' o'erarching vine. 



TO DELIUS. 

BOOK n., ODE III. 

Firm be thy soul ! — serene in power. 
When adverse fortune clouds the sky 

Undazzled by the triumph's hour. 
Since, DeUus, thou must die — 

Alike, if still to grief resigned, 

Or if, through festal days, 'tis thine 

To quaff, in grassy haunts rechned, 
The old Falernian wine — 

Haunts where the silvery poplar boughs 
Love with the pine's to blend on high, 

And some clear fountain brightly flows 
In graceful windings by. 

There be the rose with beauty fraught 
So soon to fade, so brilliant now ; 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



361 



There be the wine, the odors brought, 
"While time and fate allow ! 

For thou, resigning to thine heir 

Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, 
Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, 

dn yellow Tiber's shore. 

What then avails it, if thou trace 
From Inachus thy glorious line ? 

Or, sprung from some ignoble race, 
If not a roof be thine ? 

Since the dread lot for all must leap 
Forth from the dark revolving urn, 

And we must tempt the gloomy deep, 
Whence exiles ne'er return. 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

BOOK m., ODE XIII. 

0, WORTHY fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 

Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! 
To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, 
Whose forehead swells with horns of infant 
might : 
E'en now of love and war he dreams in vain, 
Doomed with his blood thy gelid wave to 
stain. 

Let the red dogstar bum ! — his scorching beam 
Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee ! 

Still sheltered from his rays, thy banks, fair 
stream ! 
To the wild flock axound thee wandering free. 



And the tired oxen from the furrowed field, 
The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 

And thou, bright fount ! ennobled and renowned 

Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made ; 
Thou and the oak with deathless verdtire 
crowned, 
Whose boughs, a pendent canopy, o'ershade 
Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many 

a tale, 
Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. 



TO FAUNUS. 

BOOK III., ODE XVIII 

Fattnus ! who lov'st the flying nymphs to d2.*set 
O, let thy steps with genial influence tread 

My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace 
Soft on my nursling groves and borders shed | 

If, at the mellow closing of the year. 

A tender kid in sacrifice be thine, 
Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus deal, 

Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine 

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays. 
When the December feast returns to thee ; 

Calmly the ox along the pasture strays, 
With festal villagers from toil set free. 

Then from the woK no more the lambs retreat, 
Then shower the woods to thee their foliaga 
round ; 

And the glad laborer triumphs that his feet " 
In triple dance have struck the bated ground. 



D^ CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



A TRAGEDY.' ' 

About this time, Mrs. Hemans was engaged in the composition of another tragedy, entitled ' De Chatillon, or, Th* 
Cfusaders ; ' in which, with that deference to fair criticism which she was always ready to avow, and to act upon, slie 
made it her purpose to attempt a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of poetic diction which haa 
been censured as the prevailing fault of ' The Vespers.' It may possibly be thought that in the composition in question 
the has fallen into the opposite extreme of want of elaboration ; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely amenable 
to criticism — for, by some strange accident, the fair copy transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some 
of her subsequent removals, and the piece was long considered as utterly lost. Nearly two years after he»' death, the 
original rough MS., with all its hieroglyphical blots and erasures, was discovered amongst a mass of forgotten papers; 
and it has been a task of no small difficulty to decipher it, and complete the copy now first given to the world. Allow 
ances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages under which it appears, — thus deprived of her own finishin| 
touches, and with hd means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy so unaccountably missing." — JUemoir, 
pp. 80, 81.] _________ 

1 First published in Edition of Collected Works, vol. iv 1840 
46 



86^ 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Rainier de Chatillor, a French Baron. 
Aymer, His Brother. 
Melech, a Saracen Emir 
Herman 

Du MORNAY 



tNAY, ) 



Knishts. 



Gaston, A Vassal of Rainitr't, 

Urban, A Priest. 

Sadi. 



MoRAiMA, Daughter of Melech. 
Kmghts, Arabs, Citiiens, ^c. 



ACT I. 



BcENE I. — Before the gates of a city in Palestine. 



Urban, Priests, Citizens, at the gates, 
looking from the walls above. 



Others 



Urb. {to a Citizen on the loalls above.') 
You see their lances glistening ? You can tell 
The waj' they take ? 

Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow ; 
They have not reached the jutting cliff, where 

first 
The mountain path divides, 

Urb. And now ? 

Cit. The wood 
Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flasliing 

out — 
It is the banner of De Chatillon. 
[Very sloio and mournful military music without. '\ 
This way ! they come this way ! 

Vrb. All holy saints 
Grant that they pass us not ! Those martial 

sounds 
Have a strange tone of sadness ! Hark, they swell 
Proudly, yet fuU of sorrow. 

Rainier de Chatillon enters with knights, 
soldiers, ^c. 

Welcome, knights ! 
Ye bring us timely aid ! men's hearts were fuU 
Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon ! 
True soldier of the Cross ! I welcome thee ; 
I greet thee with all blessing ! Where thou art 
There is deliverance ! 

Sot. {bending to receive the Priest's blessing.') 
Holy man, I come 
From a lost battle. 

Urb. And thou bring'st the heart 
Whose spirit yields not to defeat. 

Rai. I bring 
My father's bier. 

Urb. His bier ! I marvel not 
To see your brow thus darkened ! And he died, 
As he had lived, in anns ? 

Rai. {gloomily.) Not, not in arms — 
His war cry had been silenced. Have ye place 



Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres 

For a warrior with his sword ? He bade me heal 

His dust to slumber here. 

Urb. And it shall sleep 
Beside our noblest, while we yet can call 
One holy place our OAvn ! Heard you, my lord, 
That the fierce Kaled's host is on its march 
Against our city ? 

Rai. {with sudden exultation.) That were joy 
to know! 
That were proud joy ! — Who told it ? — there's 

a weight 
That must be heaved from off my troubled heart 
By the strong tide of battle ! Kaled ! — ay, 
A gallant name ! How heard you ? 

Urb. Nay, it seemed 
As if a breeze first bore the rumor in. 
I know not how it rose ; but now it comes 
Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left 
Hopeless of aid or counsel — till we saw 

Rai. {hastily.) You have my brother here ? 

Urb. {with embarrassment.) We have ; but 
he 

Rai. But he — but he ! — Aymer de Chatillon ! 
The fiery knight — the very soul o' the field — 
Rushing on danger with the joyous step 
Of a hunter o'er the hUls ! — is that a tone 
Wherewith to speak of him ? I heard a tale — 
If it be true — nay, tell me ! 

Urb. He is here ; 
Ask him to tell thee 

Rai. If that tale be true 

\He turns sudden^/ to his companiont, 
— Follow me, give the noble dead his rites, 
And we will have our day of vengeance yet, 
Soldiers and friends ! [Exeunt omnes. 

Scene 11. — A Hall of Orimital architecture, open- 
ing upon gardens. A fountain in the centre. 

Aymer de Chatillon, Moraima. 

Mor. {bending over a couch on which her brother 
is sleeping.) 
He sleeps bo calmly now ; the soft wind here 
Brings in such lulling sounds ! Nay, think vou 
not 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERkS. 



36« 



This slumber -will restore liim ? See you not 
His cheek's faint glow ? 

Ayni. {turning awai/.) It was my sword which 
gave 
The wound he dies from ! 

Ahr. Dies from ! say not so ! 
The orother of my childhood and my youth, 
My heart's first friend! — O, I have been too 

weak — 
I have delayed too long ! He could not sue ; 
He bade 7ne urge the prayer he would not 

speak, 
And I withheld it ! Christian, set us free ! 
You have been gentle with us ; 'tis the weight. 
The bitter feeling, of captivity 
Which preys upon his life. 

Aym. You would go hence ? 

Mor. For his sake. 

Aym. You would leave me ! 'Tis too late ! 
You see it not, you know not, that your voice 
Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake 
Mine inmost soul ? — that you but look on me, 
*Vith the soft darkness of your earnest eyes, 
A.nd bid the world fade from me, and call up 
A thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my 

life 
As mth a troubled cloud ? The very sound 
Of your light step hath made my heart o'erflow, 
Even unto aching, with the sudden gush 
Of its deep tenderness. You know it not ! 
- ^Moraima ! speak to me ! 

Mor. {covering herself with her veil.) I can but 
weep. 
Is it even so ? — this love was born for tears ! 
Aymer ! I can but weep. 

[Going to leave him — he detains her. 

Aym. Hear me, yet hear me ! I was reared in 
arms ; 
And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts 
Of bannered armies — these were joy to me. 
Enough of joy ! Till you ! — I looked on you ; 
We met where swords were flashing, and the 

light 
Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain — 
And then 

Mor. {hurriedly.') Yes ! then you saved me ! 

Aym. Then I knew, 
At once, what springs of deeper happiness 
Lay far within my soul ; and they burst forth 
Troubled and dashed with fear — yet sweet ! I 

loved ! 
Moraima ! leave me not ! 

Mor. For us to love ! — 
0, is't not taking Sorrow to our hearts. 
Binding her there ? I know not what I say ! 



How shall I look upon my brother ? Hark ! 
Did he not call ? [She goes up to the couch 

Aym. Am I beloved ? She wept 
With a full heart ! I am ! And such deep joj 
Is found on earth ! If I should lose her now ! 

If aught [An attendatit enteri, 

{To attendant.) You seek me .' — why is this? 

Att. My lord. 
Your brother and his knights 

Aym. Here ! are they here ? 
The knights — my brother, saidst thou ? 

Att. Yes, my lord, 
And he would speak with you. 

Aym. I see — I know 

( To attendant.) Leave me ! I know why he il 

come : 'tis vain — 
They shall not part us ! 

[Looking back on Moraima as he goes out. 
What a silent grace 
Floats round her form ! They shaU not part 
us — no ! [Exit. — Scene closes. 

Scene HI. — A square of the city — a church in 
the background. 

Rainiek de Chatillon. 

Rai. {walking to and fro impatiently.^ 
And now, too ! now ! My father unavenged, 
Our holy places threatened, every heart 
Tasked to its strength ! A knight of Palestine 
Noio to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul 
In lovelorn sighs ; and for an infidel ! 
— Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine ? 
Will he not hush ! 

Aymeb. enters. They look on each other for d 
moment wiiJiout speaking. 

Rai. {suppressing his emotion.) So brothers 
meet I You know 
Wherefore I come ? 

Aym. It cannot be ; 'tis vain. 
Tell me not of it ! 

Rai. How ! you have not heard ? 

[ Turning from him. 
He hath so shut the world out with his dreams. 
The tidings have not reached him ! or perchanca 
Have been forgotten ! You have captives here ? 

Aym. {hurriedly.) Yes, mine ! my own — won 
by the right of arms ! 
You dare not question it. 

Rai. A prince, they say. 
And his fair sister : — is the maid so fair ? 

Aym. {turning suddenly upon him.) 
What, you would see '■<■ r ? 

Rai. {scornfully.'^ ' i — O, yes ! to quell 



J 



S64 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



My soul's deep yearnings ! Let me look on 

swords. 
Boy, boy ! recall yourself! — I come to you 
With the last blessing of our father ! 

Aijtn. Last ! 
His last ! — how mean you ? Is he 

Rai. Dead ? — yes ! dead. 
He died upon my breast. 

Axjm. {with the deepest emotioii.') And I was 
Jicre ! 
Dead ! — and upon your breast ! You closed his 

eyes — 
While I — he spoke of me ? 

Rai. With such deep love ! 
He ever loved you most ! His spirit seemed 
To linger for your coming. 

Aym. What ! he thought 
That I was on my way ! He looked for me ? 
And I^^ 

Rai. You came not ! I had sent to you, 
And told you he was wounded. 

Ayin. Yes — but not — 
Not mortally ! 

Rai. 'Twas not that outward wound — 
That might have closed : and yet he surely 

thought 
That you would come to him ! He called on you 
When his thoughts wandered ! Ay, the very 

night, 
The very hour he died, some hasty step 
Entered his chamber — and he raised his head. 
With a faint lightning in his eyes, and asked 
If it were yours ! That hope's brief moment 

passed — 
He sank then. 

Aym. (throwing himself xipon his brother's neck.) 
Brother ! take me to his grave, 
That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, 
With the strong passion of repentant love, 
Wring forth a voice to pardon me ! 

Rai. You weep ! 
Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave ! 
You know not hoiu he died ! 

Aym. Not of his wound ? 

Rai. His wound ! — it is the silent spirit's 
•wv jiiid, 
We cannot rea)2 to heal ! One burning thought 
Preyed on his heart. 

Aym. Not — not — he had not heard — 
He blessed me, Rainier ? 

Rai, Have you flung away 
JTour birthright ? Yes ! he blessed you ! — but 

he died 
— He whose name stood for Victory's — he 
believed 



The ancient honor from his gray head fallen, 
And died — he died of shame ! 

Aym. What feverish dream 

Rai. {vehemently.) Was it not lost, the war- 
rior's latest field. 
The noble city held for Palestine 
Taken — the Cross laid low ? I came too late 
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, 
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence 
Wounded, upon his shield 

Aym. And I was here ! 

Rai. He cast one look back on his burning 
towers. 
Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields 
To the earth — and hid his face ! I knew, I knew 
His heart was broken ! Such a death for him ! 
— The wasting — the sick loathing of the sun — 
Let the foe's charger trample out my life, 
Let me not die of shame ! But we will have 

Aym. {grasping his hand eagerly.) Yes ! ven- 
geance ! 

Rai. Vengeance ! By the dying once. 
And once before the dead, and yet once more 
Alone with heaven's bright stars, I took that 

vow 
For both his sons ! Think of it, when the nigh 
Is dark around you, and in festive halls 
Keep your soul hushed, and think of it ! 

A low Chant of female voices, heard from behino 
the scenes. 

Fallen is the flower of Islam's race ! 

Break ye the lance he bore. 
And loose his war steed from its place : 
He is no more — 
Single voice. No more ! 

Weep for him mother, sister, bride ! 
He died, with all his fame — 
Single voice. He died ! 

Aym. {Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speak- 
ing to his atteridant, who enters.) 
Came it not thence ? Rudolf, what sounds are 
these ? 
Att. The Moslem prince, your captive — he 
is dead : 
It is the mourners' wail for him. 

Aym. And she — 
His sister — heard you — did they say she wept .•' 

'Hurryi7ig away. 
, Rai. {indignantly) All the deep-stirring tones 

of honor's voice 
In a moment silenced ! [Solemn military music. 
{A fu7ieral procession, with priests, S^c., crosses th» 
background to enter the church.) 
Rai. (followi}ig Atmee and grasping his arm.) 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



365 



Aymer ! there — look there ! 
It is your father's bier ! 

Ayi)^ {rehir7iing.) He blessed me, Rainier ? 
You heard him bless me ? Yes ! yoit closed his 

eyes : 
He looked for me in vain ! 

\He goes to the bier, and bends over it, cov- 
*ring his face- 

ACT II. 

Scene I. — A room in the Citadel. 

Rainiee, Aymer, Knights, assembled in Couticil. 

A Knight. What ! with our weary and dis- 
tracted bands 
To dare another field ! Na}', give them rest. 
Rai. {impatiently.) Rest ! and that sleepless 

thought 

Knight. These walls have strength 
To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in — 
We must wait aid ; our soldiers must forget 
That last disastrous day. 

Rai. (coming forward.) K they forget it, in 
the combat's press 
May th*ir spears fail them ! 

Knight. Yet, bethink thee, chief. 

Hai. When I forget it how ! you see not, 

knights ! 
Wlience we must row draw strength. Send 

down your thoughts 
Into the vei^' depths of grief and shame, 
And bring back courage thence! To talk of 

rest ! 
How do they rest, unburied on their field. 
Our brethren slain by Gaza ? Had we time 
To give them funeral rites ? and ask we now 
Time to forget their fall r My father died — 
I cannot speak of him ! What ! and forget 
The infidel's fierce trampling o'er our dead ? 
Forget his scornful shout ? Give battle now, 
While the thought lives as fire lives ! — there 

lies strength ! 
Hold the dark memory fast ! Now, now — this 

hour ! 
— Aymer, you do not speak ! 

Aym. {starting.) Have I not said ? 
Battle ! — yes, give us battle ! — room to pour 
The troubled spirit forth upon the winds. 
With the trumpet's ringing blast ! Way for re- 
morse ! 
Free way for vengeance ! 
AU the Knights. Arm ! Heaven wills it so ! 
Rai. Gather your forces to the western gate ! 
uet none forget that day ! Our field was lost, 



Our city's strength laid low — one mighty heart 
Broken ! Let none forget it ! [Exeunt, 

Scene II. — Garden of a Palace. 

MORAIMA. 

Mor. Yes ! his last look — my brother'a djing 
look 
Reproached me as it faded from his face. 
And I deserved it ! Had I not given way 
To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart, 
I might have won his freedom ! Now, 'tis past 
He is free now ! 

Aymer enters, armei as for battle. 

Aymer ! you look so changed ! 

Aym. Changed ! — it may be A storm o' tha 
soul goes by 
Not like a breeze ! There's such a fearful grasp 
Fixed on my heart ! Speak to me — lull remorse ! 
Bid me farewell ! 

Mor. Yes ! it must be farewell ! 
No other word but that. 

Aym. No other word ! 
The passionate, burning words that I could pour 
From my heart's depths ! 'Tis madness ' What 

have I 
To do with love ? I see it all — the mist 
Is gone — the bright mist gone ! I see the woe, 
The ruin, the despair ! And j-et I love. 
Love wildly, fatally ! Bui t^^Citk to me ! 
Fill all my soul once more \vith reckless joy ! 
That blessed voice again ! 

Mor. Why, why is this ? 
O, send me to my father ! We must part. 

Aym. Part ! — yes, I know it all ! I could 
not go 
Till I had seen you ! Give me one farewell. 
The last — perchance the last ! — but one fare- 
well, 
Whose mournful music I may take with me 
Through tumult, horror, death ! 

[A distant sound of trumpets. 

Mor. {starting.) You go to battle ! 

Aym. Hear you not that sound ? 
Yes ! I go there, where dark and stormy thoughts 
Find their free path ! 

Mor. Aymer ! who leads the foe ? 
{Confused.) I meant — I mean — my peoole .' 

Who is he. 
My peojile's leader ? 

Aym. Kaled. {Looking at her suspiciously,) 
How ! you seem — 
The name disturbs you ! 

Mor. My last brother's name ! 



)66 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Aym. Fear not mi/ sword for him ! 

Mor. {turning atcai/.) If they snould meet ! 
r know the vow he made. 

{To Aymer.) If thou — if thou 
Shouldst fall ! 

Aym. Mornima ! then your blessed tears 
Would flow for me r then you would weep for me ? 

Mor. I must weep tears of very shame ; and 
yet — 
S— if your words have been love's own true 

words, 
flrant me one boon ! [Trumpet sounds again. 

Aym. Hark ! I must hence. A boon ! 
Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart, 
As the last token, it may be, of love 
So deep and sad. 

Mor. Pledge me your knightly faith ! 

Aym. My knightly faith, my life, my honor 
— ail, 
I pledge thee all to grant it ! 

Mor. Then, to-day. 
Go not this day to battle ! He is there, 
My brother Kaled ! 

Aym. {wildly.') Have I flung my sword 
Do's\'n to dishonor ? 

[Going to leave her — she detains him. 

Mor. O, your name hath stirred 
His soul amidst his tents, and he had vowed. 
Long ere we met, to cross his sword with yours. 
Till one or both should fall. There hath been 

death, 
Since then, amongst us ; he will seek revenge. 
And his revenge — forgive me ! — O, forgive, 
— I could not boar that thought ! 

Aym. Now must the glance 
Of a brave man strike me to the very dust ! 
Ay, this is shame. [Covering his face. 

{Tin-ning icildly to Moraima.) 
Yoxt scorn me too ? Away ! — She does not know 
What she hath done ! [Rushes out. 

Scene III. — Before a gateioay within the city. 
Rainier, Herman, Knights, Men-at-arms, &;c. 
Her. 'Tis past the hour. 

Rai. {looking out a7ixioiisly.') Away ! 'tis not 
the hour — 
Not yet ! '\Mien was the battle's hour delayed 
For a Chatillon r We must have come too soon ! 
AJl are not here. 
Her. Yes, all ! 
Rai. They came too soon. 

[Goi7ig up to the knights. 
Couci, De FoLx, Du Mornay — here, all here ! 
4.nd he the last ! my brother ! 

{To a Soldiei:) Where's your lord ! 



{Turning away.) Why should I ask, when th«ft 

fair Infidel 

aymer enters. 
The Saracen at our gates — and you the last ! 
Come on ! remember all your fame ! 

Aym. [coming forward in great agitation.') My 
i'ame ! 

— Why did you save me from the Paynim'i 

sword, 
In my first battle ? 

Rai. What wild words are these ? 

Aym. You should have let me perish then~~ 
yes, then ! 
Go to your field and leave me ! 

Knights, {thronging round him.) Leave you ! 

Rai. Aymer ! 
Was it your voice ? 

Aym. Now talk to me of fame ! 
Tell me of all my Ai-arlike ancestors, 
And of my father's death — that bitter death I 
Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst 
As I for this day's vengeance ! To your field ! 

— I may not go ! 

Rai. (turning from him.) The name his race 
hath borne • 

Through a thousand battles — lost ! 

{Returning to Aymer.) A Chatillon ! 
Will you live and wed dishonor ? 

Aym. {covering his face.) Let the grave 
Take me and cover me ! I must go down 
To its rest without my sword ! 
' Rai, There's some dark speU upon him 

Aymer, bi other ! 
Let me not die of shame ! He that died so 
Turned sickening from the sun ! 
Aym. Where should I turn ? 

[Going upzahrziptly to the knights. 
Herman — Du Mornay ! ye have stood with mo 
I' the battle's front — yo know me ! ye have seen 
The fiery joy of danger bear me on 
As wind the arrow ! Leave me now — 'tis past ! 
Rai. {loith bitterness.) He comes from her! — 
the infidel hath smiled. 
Doubtless, for this. 

Aym. I should have been to-day 
Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords 
Cajanot flash out for blood! — Hark! you are 
called ! 
[Wild Turkish music heard without. The 
background of the scene becomes more anv, 
more crowded with armed men. 
Lay lance in rest ! — wave, noble banners I 
wave ! [ Throtcing down his sword 

Go from me ! — leave the fallen ! 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



367 



Her, Nay, but the cause ? 
Tell us the cause ! 

Rai. {^approaching him indicjnantli/.) 
Your sword — your crested helm 
Ajid your knight's mantle — cast them down ! 

your name 
Is in the dust ! — our father's name ! The 

cause ? 
— Tell it not, tell it not ! 

[Turning to the soldiers and leaving his ha7id. 
Sound, trumpets ! sound ! 
On, lances ! for the Cross ! 

[Military music. As the knights march 
out, he looks back at Aymer. 

I would not now 
Call back my noble father from the dead, 
If I could -R-ith but a breath ! — Sound, trum- 
pets, sound ! 

[Exeunt knights and soldiers. 
Aym. Why should I bear this shame ? 'tis not 

too late ! 
[Rushing after them, he suddenly checks himself. 
My faith ! my knightly faith pledged to my fall ! 

[Exit. 

Scene TV. — Before a Church. 

Groups of Citizens passing to and fro. Aymee, 
standing against one of the pillars of the church 
in the background, and leaning on his sword, 
1st at. {to Id.) From the walls, how goes the 

battle ? 
2d Cit. Well, all well, 
Praise to the saints ! I saw De Chatillon 
Fighting, as if upon his single arm 
The fate o' the day were set. 

3(i Cit. Shame light on those 
That strike not with him in their place ! 

\st Cit. You mean 
His brother ? Ay, is't not a fearful thing 
That one of such a race — a brave one too — 
Should have thus fallen ? 

2d Cit. They say the captive girl 
Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith 
To the vile Paynim creed. 

Aym. {suddenly coming forward.') Who dares 
say that ? 
Show me who dares say that ! 

[ They shrink back — he laughs scornfully. 
Ha ! ha ! ye thought 
To play with a sleeper's name ! — to make your 

mirth 
As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest 
O'ei a dead warrior ! Where's the slanderer ? 
Speuk! 



A Citizen enters hastily. 

Cit. Haste to the walls ! De Chatillon hath 
slain 
The Paynim chief ! [ They all go out 

Aym, Why should they shrink ? I, I should 
ask the night 
To cover me ! I that have flung my name 
Away to scorn ! Hush ! am I not alone ? 

[Listening eagerly. 
There's a voice cjalling me — a voice i' the air — 
My father's! — 'Twas my father's! Are tha 

dead, 
Unseen, yet with us ? Fearful ! 
{Loud shouts without; he rushes forivard exultingly.^ 

'Tis the shout 
Of victory ! We have triumphed ! — We ! my 

place 
Is 'midst the fallen ! 

[Music heard, lohich approaches, sieellmg into 
a triumphant march. Knights enter iu 
jjrocession, loith banners, torch bearers, ^c. 
The gates of the church are thrown open 
and the altar, tombs, ^c, within, are seen il- 
luminated. Knights pass over, and entet 
the church. One of them takes a torch, and 
lifts it to Aymee's face in passing. He 
strikes it doion with a sword; then, seeing 
Rainier approach, drops the sword, and 
covers his face. 
Aym. {grasping Rainier by the mantte, as he is 
about to pass.) 
Brother ! forsake me not ! 

Rai. {suddenly drawing his sword, and showiny 
it him.) My sword is red 
With victory and revenge ! , Look — dyed to 
the hilt ! 

— We fought — and where were you ? 
Aym. Forsake me not ! 

Rai. {'pointing loith his sicord to the tombs with- 
in the church.) 
Those are proud tombs ! The dead, the gloriotu 

dead. 
Think you they sleep, and know not of their soni 
In the mysterious grave ? We laid h im there ! 

— Before the ashes of your father, speak ' 
Have you abjured your faith ? 

Aym. {indignantly.) Your name is mine — 
your blood — and you ask this ! 
Wake him to hear me answer ! — Have you ! 
No! 

— You have not dared to think it. 

[Breaks frotn him, and goes out 
Rai. {entering the church, and bending over ont 
of the to?nbs.) Not ye*' k)st I 



868 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Not j'et all lost ! He shall be thine again ! 
So shalt thou sleep in peace. 

Music and Chorus of Voices from the Church, 
Praise, praise to He.wen! 
Sing of the conquered field, the Paynim flying ; 
Light up the shrines, and bid the banners wave ! 
Sing of the -warrior for the red cross dying ; 
Chant a proud requiem o'er his holy grave ! 
Praise, praise to Heaven ! 
Praise ! — lift the song through night's resound- 
ing sky ! 
Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die ! 
Sleep soft, ye brave ! 

ACT ni. 

Scene I. — A platform before the Citadel. 
Knights entering. 

Her. {to one of the Knights.') You would plead 
for him ? 

Knight. Nay, remember all 
His past renown. 

Iler. I had a friend in youth — 
This Aymcr's flxther had him shamed for less 
Than his son's fault — far less. 
"We must accuse him ; he must have his shield 
Reversed — his name degraded. 

Knight. He might yet — 

All the Knights. Must liis shame cleave to us f 
"We cast him forth — 
We ■R'ill not bear it. 

Rainier eiiters. 

Rai. Knights ! ye speak of him — 
My brother — was't not so ? All silent ! Nay, 
Give your thoughts breath. What said ye ? 

Her. That his name 
Must be degraded. 

Rai. Silence ! ye disturb 
The dead. Thou hear'st, my father ! 

[Going up indignanihj to the Knights. 
Which of ye 
Shall first accuse him ? He, whose bold step won 
rhe breach at Ascalon ere Aymcr's step. 
Let him speak first ! 
He that plunged deeper through the stormy 

fight. 
Thence to redeem the banner of the Cross, 
On Cairo's plain, let him speak first ! Or he 
Whose sword burst swifter o'er the Saracen, 
r the rescue of our king, by Jordan's waves — 
I say, let him speak first ! 

Her. Is he not an apostate ? 

Hai. No, no, no ! 



If he were that, had my life's blood that taint, 
This hand should pour it out. He is not that. 
Her. Not yet. 

Rai. Nor yet, nor ever ! Let me die 
In a lost battle first ! 

Her. Hath he let go 
Name, kindred, honor, for an infidel, 
And will he grasp his faith ? 

Rai. {after a gloomy pause.) That which beari 
poison — should it not be crushed ? 
"What though the weed look lovely ? 

[Suddenly addressing Du Mornay. 
You have seen 
My native halls, Du Mornay, far away 
In Languedoc ? 

Du Mor. I was j'our father's friend — 
I knew them well. 

Rai. {thoughtfully.) The weight of gloom that 
hangs — 
The very banners seem to droop with it — 
O'er some of those old rooms ! Were we there 

now, 
With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, 

Why, I could tell you 

[Coming closer to Du Mornay. 
There's a dark-rod spot 
Grained in the floor of one : you know the tale ? 
Du Mor. I may have heard it by the winter 
fires, 

— Now 'tis of things gone by. 

Rai. {turning from him displeased.) Sue id .e- 
gends give 
Some minds a deeper tone. 

{To Herman.) If yott had heard 

That tale i' the shadowy tower 

Her. Nay, tell it now ! 

Rai. They say the place is haunted —■ moan- 
ing sounds 
Come thence at midnight — sounds of woman's 
voice. 

Her. And you believe 

Rai. I but believe the deed 
Done there of old. I had an ancestor — 
Bertrand, the lion chief — whose son went forth 
(A younger son — I am not of his line) 
To the wars of Palestine. He fought there wel, 

— Ay, all his race were brave ; but he returned. 
And with a Paynim bride. 

Her. The recreant ! — say, 
How bore your ancestor ? 

Rai. WeU may you think 
It chafed him ; but he bore it, for the love 
Of that fair son, the child of his old age. 
He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel 
A place in his own halls. 



Her. But did this last ? 

Rai. How should it last ? Again the trumpet 
blew, 
And men were summoned from their homes to 

guard 
The city of the Cross. But he seemed cold — 
rhat youth. He shunned his father's eye, and 

took 
No armor from the walls. 

Her. Had he then Mien ? 
Was his faith wavering ? 
Rai. So the father feared. 

Her. If I had been that father 

Rai. Ay, you come 
Of an honored lineage. What would you have 
done ? 
Her. Nay, what did he ? 
Rai. What dia tik'i -^.n. chief ? 

[Turning to Du Mornay. 
Why, thou hast seen the very spot of blood 
On the dark floor ! He slew the Paynim bride. 
Was it not well ? (ffe looks at them attentively, 
and as he goes out exclaims — ) 

My brother must not fall ! 

ScEN'E II. — A deserted Turkish burying ground 
in the city — tombs and stones overthrown — the 
whole shaded by dark cypress trees. 

Mar. {leaning over a tnomcmental pillar, which 
has been lately raised.) 
He is at rest ; — and I ! — is there no power 
In grief to win forgiveness from the dead ? 
When shall I rest ? Hark! a step — Aymer'sstep! 
The thrilling sound ! 

[She shrinks back as reproaching herself. 
To feel that joy even here ! 
Brother ! O, pardon me ! 

Rai. {entering, and slowly looking round.) 
A gloomy scene ! 

A place for Is she not an infidel ? 

Who shall dare call it murder ? 

[He advances to her slowly, atid looks at her 
She is fair — 
The deeper cause ! Maid, have you thought of 

death 
'Midst these old tombs ? 

Mor. {shrinking from him fearfully.) This is 

my brother's grave. 
Rai. Thy brother's ! That a warrior's grave 
had closed 
O'er mine — thte free and noble knight he was ! 
Ay, that the desert sands had shrouded him 
Before he looked on thee ! 
Mor. If you are his — 
47 



If Aymer's brother.— though your brow be dark. 
I may not fear you ! 

Rai. No ? wh}% thou shouldst fear 
The very dust o' the mouldering sepulchre, 
If it had lived, and borne his name on earth I 
Hear'st thou ? — that dust hath stirred, and 

found a voice. 
And said that thou must die ! 

Mor. {clinging to the pillar as he approach^!.') 
Be with me, Heaven ! 
You will not murder me ? 

Rai. {turning away.) A goodly word 
To j oin with a warrior's name ! — a sound to make 
Men's flesh creep. What ! — for Paynim blood 
Did he stand faltering thus — my ancestor — 
In that old tower ? 

[He again approaches hei she falls on her 

knees. 
Mor. So young, and thus to die ! 
Mercy — have mercy ! In your own far land 
If there be love that weeps and watches for you, 
And follows you with prayer — even by that love 
Spare me — for it is woman's ! If light steps 
Have bounded there to meet you, clinging arms 
Hung on your neck, fond tears o'erflowed your 

cheek. 
Think upon those that loved you thus, for thus 
Doth woman love ! and spare me ! — think on 

them ! 
Thej', too, may yet need mercy ! Aymer, Aymer ! 
Wilt thou not hear and aid me ? 

Rai. {starting.) There's a name 
To bring back strength ! Shall I not strike to, 
save 

His honor and his life ? Were his life all 

Mor. To save his life and honor! — will my 

death 

[She rises and stands before him, covering her 
face hurriedly. 
Do it with one stroke ! I may not live for him ! 
Rai. {with surprise.) A woman meet death 

thus! 
Mor. {uncovering her eyes.) Yet one thing 
more — 
I have sisters and a father. Christian knight 1 
0> by your mother's memory, let them know 
I died with a name unstained. 
Rai. {softened and surprised.) 
And such high thoughts from her! — an infidel ! 
And she named my mother ! — Once in early 

youth 
From the wild waves I snatched a woman's life ; 
My mother blessed me for it {slowly dropping his 

dagger) — even with tears 
She blessed me. Stay, are there no other means i 



B70 



DE CHATILLOlSr ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



(Suddenlt/ recollecting himself.) Follow me, maid- 
en ! Fear not now. 

Mor. But he 

But Aymer — 

Rai. (sternli/.) Wouldst thou perish ? Name 
him not ! — 
Look not as if thou wouldst ! Think'st thou 

dark thoughts 
Arc blown away like dewdrops ? or I, like him, 
A leaf to shake and turn i' the changing wind ? 
Follow me, and beware ! 

[S/ie bends over the tomb for a moment, and 
follows him, 

Aymer enters, and slowli/ comes forward from the 
background, 

Aym. For the last time — yes ! it must be the 
last ! 
Earth and heaven say — the last ! The very 

dead 
Rise up to part us ! But one look — and then 
She must go hence forever ! Will she weep ? 
It had been little to have died for her — 
I have borne shame. 

She shall know all ! Moraima ! Said they not 
She would be found here at her brother's grave ? 
Where should she go ? Moraima ! There's the 

print 
Of her step — what gleams beside it ? 
(Seeing the dagger, he fakes it up.) Ha! men work 
Dai-k deeds with things like this ! 

[Looking wildly and anxiously around, 
I see no — blood ! 
[Looking at the dagger. 
Stained ! — it may be from battle ; 'tis not — wet. 
[Looks round, intently listening ; then again 
examines the spot. 
Ha ! what is this ? another step in the grass ! — 
Hers and another's step ! 

[He rtishes into the cypress grove. 

Scene III. — A hall in the citadel, hung with arms 
and banners. 

Rainier, Herman — Knights in the background, 
laying aside their armor- 

Her. (coming forward and speaking hurriedly.) 
Is it done ? Have you done it ? 

Rai. (with disgust.) What ! you thirst 
For blood so deeply ? 

Her. (indigna7itly.) Have you struck, and saved 
The honor of your house ? 

Rai. (thoughtfully to himself.) The light i' the 
soul 
Is such a waveiing thing ! Have I done well.' 



(To Herman.) 
Ask me not ! Never shall they meet again. 
Is't not enough ? 

Aymer enters hurriedly with the dagger, and goet 
up loith it to several of the knights, who begin to 
gather round the. front. 

Ayni. Whose is this dagger ? 

Rai. (coming forward and taking it.) Mine. 

Aym. Yours ! yours ! — and know yon 

where 

Rai. (about to sheathe it, but stojipijig.) 0, you 
do well 
So to remind me ! Yes ! it must have lain 
In the Moslem burial ground — and that vile 

dust — 
Hence with it ! 'tis defiled. [ Throws it from him. 

Aym- If such a deed 

Brother ! where is she ? 

Rai. Who ? — what knight hath lost 
A lady love ? 

Aym. Could he speak thus, and wear 

That scornful calm, if No ! he is not calm. 

What have you done ? 

Rai. (aside.) Yes ! she shall die to him i 
Aym. (grasping his arm.) What have you 

done ? — speak ! 
Rai. You should know the tale 
Of our dark ancestor, the Lion Chief, 
And his son's bride. 

Aym. Man ! man ! you murdered her ! 

^Sinking back. 
It grows so dark around me ! She is dead ! 
(Wildly.) I'll not believe it! No! she nevei 

looked 
Like what could die ! [Goes up to his brother. 

If you have done that deed • 

Rai. (sternly.) If I have done it, I have flung 
off shame 
From my brave father's house ! 

Aym. (in a low voice to himself.) 
So young, and dead ! — because I loved her — 
dead ! 

(To Rainier.) 
Where is she, murderer ? Let me see her face 
You think to hide it with the dust ! — ha ! ha ! 
The dust to cover her ! We'll mock you still : 
If I call her back, she'llcome ! Where is she ?- 

speak ! 
Now, by my father's tomb ! but I am calm. 
Rai. Never more hope to sec her ! 
Ay^n. Never more ! 

[Sitting doicn on the ground 
I loved her, so she perished ! — All the earth 
Hath not another voice to reach my soul, 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



371 



Kow hers is silent ! Never, never more ! 

If she had but said farewell ! — (Bewildered.) 

It grows so dark ! 
This is some fearful dream. When the morn 

comes I shall wake. 
— My life's bright hours are done ! 
Rai. I must be firm. 

[Takes a banner from the wall, and brings it 
to Aymeu. 
Have you forgotten this ? We thought it lost, 
But it rose proudly waving o'er the fight 
In a warrior's hand again ! Yours, Aymor ! 

yours ! 
Brother ! redeem your fame ! 

Aym. {putting it from him.') The worthless 
thing ! 
Fame ! She is dead ! — give a king's robe to one 
Stretched on the rack ! Hence with your 

pageantries 
Down to the dust ! 

Her. The banner of the Cross ! 
Shame on the recreant ! Cast him from us ! 

Rai. Boy! 
Degenerate boy ! Here, with the trophies won 
By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim war 
Above you and around ; the very air, 
When it but shakes their armor on the walls, 
Murmuring of glorious deeds ; to sit and weep 
Here for an Infidel ! My father's son. 
Shame ! shame ! deep shame ! 

Knights. Aymer de Chatillon ! 
Go from us, leave us ! 

Aym. {starting up.) Leave you! what! ye 
thought 
That I would stay to breathe the air you 

breathe — 
And fight by you I Murderers ! I burst all ties ! 
[Throws his sioord on the ground before them. 
There's not a thing of the desert half so free ! 

{To Rainier.) 
You have no brother ! live to need the love 
Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame 
To still its restless yearnings ! Die alone ! 
'Midst all your pomps and trophies — die alone ! 
[Going out, he suddenly returns. 
Did she not call on me to succor her ? m 

Kneel to you — plead for life ? The Voice of 

Blood 
Follow you to your grava. [Exit. 

Rai. {with emotion.) Alas ! my brother ! 
The time hath been, when in the face of Death 
t have bid him leave me, and he woiild not ! 

{Turning to the Knights.) Knights ! 

The Soldan marches for Jerusalem — 
We'll meet him on the way. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emit 
Melech, Sadi, Soldiers. 

Mel. Yes ! he I mean — Rainier de Chatillon 
Go, send swift riders o'er the mountains forth, 
And through the deserts, to proclaim the price 
I set upon his life ! 

Sadi. Thou gav'st the word 
B efore ; it hath been done — they are gone forth 

Mel. Would that my soul could wing them 
Didst thou heed 
To say his life ^ Til have my own revenge ! 
Yes ! I would save him from another's hand ! 
Thou said'st he must be brought alive ? 

Sadi. I heard 
Thy will, and I obeyed. 

Mel. He slew my son — 
That was in battle — but to shed her blood ! 
My child Moraima's ! Could he see and strike 

her? 
A Christian see her face, too ! From my housa 
The crown is gone ! Wlio brought the tale '' 

Sadi. A slave 
Of your late son's, escaped. 

Mel. Have I a son 
Left ? speak, the slave of which ? Kaled is gone — 
And Octar gone — both, both are fallen — 
Both my young stately trees, and she mj 

flower — 
No hand but mine shall be upon him, none ! — 
[A sound of festive music loithout 
What mean they there ? [An attendant enters. 

Att. Tidings of joy, my chief! 

Mel. Joy ! — is the Christian taken ? 

MoRAiMA enters, and throws herself into his arms, 

Mor. Father ! Father ! 
I did not think this world had yet so much 
Of aught like happiness ! 

Mel. My own fair child ! 
Is it on thee I look indeed, my child ? 

[ Turning to attendants. 
Away, there ! — gaze not on us ! Do I hold 
Thee in my arms ! They told me thou wert slain 
Rainier de Chatillon, they said 

Mor. {hurriedly) O, no ! 
'Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my fatno- 

Mel. He 1 why, his brother Aymer still refused 
A monarch's ransom for thee ! 

Mor. {with a momentary delight.) Did he thus ? 

[Suddenly checking herself 

— Yes ! I knew well ! O, do not speak of liim ^ 



72 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Mel. What ! hath he wronged thee ? Thou 
hast suft'ered much 
Amongst these Chiistians ! Thou art changed, 

my child. 
There's a dim shadow in thine eye, where 

once 

But they shall pay me back for all thy tears 
With their best blood. 

Mor. {alarmed.) Father ! not so, not so ! 
They still were gentle with me. But I sat 
And watched beside my dying brother's couch 
Through many days : and I have wept since 

then — 
Wept much. 

Mel. Thy dying brother's couch ! — yes, thou 
Wert ever true and kind. 

Mor, {covering her face.) O, praise me not ! 
Look gently on me, or I sink to earth ; 
Not thus ! 

Mel. No praise ! thou'rt faint, my child, and 
worn : 

The length of way hath 

Mor. [eagerly.) Yes ! the way was long. 
The desert's wind breathed o'er me. Could I 
rest ? 
Mel. Yes ! thou shalt rest within thy father's 
tent. 
Follow me, gentle child ! Thou look'st so 
changed. 
Mor. {hurriedly.) The weary way, — the des- 
ert's burning vrind 

[Laying her ha^id on him as she goes out. 
Think thou no evil of those Christians, father ! — 
They were still kind. 

Scene II. — Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, 
with a Desert beyond — Military Music. 

Rainier de Chatillon — Knights and Soldiers. 

Rai. They speak of truce ? 

The Knights. Even so. Of truce between 
The Soldan and our King. 

Rai. Let him who fears 
Lest the close helm should wear his locks away. 
Cry '• truce," and cast it off. I have no wUl 
To change mine armor for a masker's robe. 
And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there ! 
Warriors and brethren ! hear. I own no truce — 
r hold my life but as a weapon now 
A-gainst the infidel ! He shall not reap 
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray 
To his false gods — no ! save by trembling stealth. 
Whilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble 

friends, 
Think not of truce with me ! — but think to quaff 



Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to real 
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds 
Barded in the haU beside you. Now turn back, 
[lie throws a spear on the ground before them> 
Ye that are weary of your armor's load : 
Pass o'er the spear, away ! 

They all shout. A Chatillon ! 
We'll follow thee — all ! all ! 
Rai. A soldier's thanks ! 

[ Turns away from them agitated 
There's one face gone, and that a brother's ! 

{Aloud.) War ! — 
War to the Paynim — war ! March and set up 
On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, 
Never to sink ! 

[Trumpets sound. They march on, whiding 
through the rocks with military music] 

Enter Gaston, a7i aged vassal of 'Ra.ini'eb.' s, as an 
armed follower — Rainier, addresses him. 

You come at last ! And she — where left you 

her ? 
The Paynim maid ? 

Gas. 1 found her guides, my lord, 
Of her own race, and left her on the way 
To reach her father's tents. 

Rai. Speak low ! — the tale 
Must rest with us. It must be thought she died, 
I can trust you. 

Gas. Your father trusted me. 

Rai. He did, he did ! — my father ! You have 
been 
Long absent, and you bring a troubled eye 
Back with you. Gaston ! heard you aught of 
hi?n ? 

Gas. Whom means my lord ? 

Rai. {impatiently.) Old man, you know tco 
well — 
Aymer, my brother. 

Gas. I have seen him. 

Rai. How ! 
Seen him ! Speak on. 

Gas. Another than my chief 
Should have my life before the shameful tale ! 

Rai. Speak quickly. 
« Gas. In the desert, as I journeyed back, 
A band of Arabs met me on the way. 
And I became their captive. Till last night 

Rai. Go on ! Last night .'' 

Gas. They slumbered by their fires — 
/ could not sleep ; when one — I thought him on% 
O' the tribe at first — came up and loosed m'V 

bonds, 
And led me from the shadow of the tents. 
Pointing my way in silence. 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



m 



Rat. Well, and he — 
STou thought him one o' the tribe. 

Gas. Ay, till he stood 
In the cieir moonlight forth ; — and then, my 
lor.1 

Rai. You dare not say 'twas Aymer ? 

Gas. Woe and shame ! 
It was, it was ! 

Rai. In their vile garb too ? 

Gas. Yes, 
Turbaned and robed like them. 

Rai. What ! — did he speak ? 

Gas. No word, but waved his hand. 
Forbidding speech to me. 

Rai. Tell me no more ! — 
Lost, lost — forever lost ! He that was reared 
Under my father's roof with me, and grew 
Up by my side to glory ! — lost ! Is this 
My work ? — who dares to call it mine ? And yet. 
Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul 

In its deep anguish What ! he wears their 

garb 
r the face of heaven ? .You saw the turban on 

him ? 
You should have struck him to the earth, and so 
Put out our shame forever ! 

Gas. Lift my sword 
Against your father's son ! 

Rai. My father's son ! 
Ay, and so loved ! — that yearning love for him 
Was the last thing death conquered ! Seest thou 
there ? 

[The banner of the Cross is raised on the fortress , 
The very banner he redeemed for us 
I' the fight at Cairo ! No ! by yon bright sign, 
He shall not perish ! This way — follow me — 
I'll tell thee of a thought. 
(^Suddenly stopping him.) Take heed, old man ! 
Thou hast a fearful secret in thy grasp : 
Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks. 
But no ! thou lovest our name ! — I'll trust thee, 
Gaston ! \_Exeunt. 

Scene III, — An Arab Encampment round a few 
Palm Trees in the Desert. — Watch^res in the 
background. — Night. 

Several Arabs enter with Atmek. 

Arab Chief. Thou hast fought bravely, stran- 
ger ! Now come on 
to share the spoil. 

Ag?n. 1 reck not of it. Go, 
Leave me to rest. 

Arab. Well, thou hast earned thy rest 
With a red sibre. Be it as thou wilt. 



[ They go out. — He throws himself under 4 
palm tree, 
Aym. This were an hour — if they would 

answer us 
— They from whose viewless world no answei 

comes — 
To hear their whispering voices. Would they but 
Speak once, and say they loved ! 
If I could hear thy thrilling voice once more, 
It would be well with me. Moraima ! speak ! 

Rainiek enters disguised as a dervise. 
Moraima, speak ! No ! the dead cannot lov3 ! 
Rai. What doth the stranger here ? — is there 
not mirth 
Around the watchfires yonder ? 

Aym. Mirth ! — away ! — 
I've nought to do with mirth. Begone ! 

Rai. They tell 
Wild tales by that red light ; wouldst thou no\ 

hear 
Of Eastern marvels ? 

Aym. Hence ! I heed them not. 
Rai. Nay, then hear me ! 
Aym. Thee ! 
Rai. Yes, I know a tale 
Wilder than theirs, 

Aym. (raising himself in surprise.') Thou 

know'st ! — 
Rai. (without minding, continues.) A tale of 
one 
Who flung in madness to the reckless deep 
A gem beyond all price. 

Aym. My day is closed. 
What is aught human unto me ? 

Rai. Yet mark ! 
His name was of the noblest — dost thou heed > 
Even in a land of princely chivalry ; 
Brightness was on it — but he cast it down, 
Aym. I will not hear — speak st thou of chiv- 
alry ? 
Rai. Yes ! I have been upon thy native hOs. 
There's a gray cliif juts proudly from thei« 

woods. 
Browned with baronial towers — rememberes* 

thou? 
And there's a chapel by the moaning sea — 
Thou know'st it well — tall pines wave over it 
Darkening the heavy banners, and the tombs. 
Is not the cross upon thy fathers' tombs ! 
Christian ! what dost thou here f 

Aym. (starting up indignantly.) Man ! who art 
thou? 
Thy voice disturbs my soul. Speak ! I will kno'«« 
Thy right to question r.e. 



Rai. (throwing off his disguise, stands before 
him in the full dress of a Cncsader.) 
My birthright ! — look ! 

Aijvi. Brother ! {Retreating from him with 
horror.) 
•— Her blood is on your hands ! — keep back ! 
Rai. {scornfully.) Nay, keep the Paynim's 
garb from touching mine. 
A.n8wer me thence ! — what dost thou here ? 

Aym. You shrink 
From your own work! — you, that have made 

me thus ! 
Wherefore are you here ? Are you not afraid 
To stand beneath the awful midnight sky, 
And you a murderer ? Leave me. 

Rai. I lift up 
No murderer's brow to heaven ! 
Aym. You da7-e speak thus ! — 
Do not the bright stars, with their searching 

rays, 
Strike through your guilty soul ? O, no ! — 

'tis well. 
Passing well ! Murder ! Make the earth's har- 
vests grow 
With Paynim blood ! — Heaven wills it ! The 

free air, 
The sunshine — I forgot — they were not made 
For infidels. Blot out the race from day ! 
WTio talks of wujrcier? Murder! when you die. 
Claim your soul's place of happiness i' the name 
Of that good deed ! 

{hi a tone of deep feeling.) 

If you had loved a flower 
1 would not have destroyed it ! 
Rai. {loith emotion.) Brother ! 
Aym. (impetuously ■) No ! — 
No brother now. She knelt to you in vain ; 
And that hath set a gulf — a boundless gulf — 
Between our souls. Your very face is changed — 
There's a red cloud shadowing it: your fore- 
head wears 
The marks of blood — her blood ! 

(In a triumphaiit tone.) 
But you prevail not ! Yoti have made the dead 
The mighty — the victorious ! Yes ! you thought 
To dash her image into fragments down. 
And you have given it power — such deep sad 

power 
I see nought else on earth ! 

Rai. {aside.) I dare not say she lives. 
{To Aymeii, Iwlding up the cross of his sword.) 
You see not this ! 
Once by our father's grave, I asked, and here, 
\! the silence of the waste, I ask once more — 
Have you abjurf.d your faith ? 



Aym. Why are you come 
To torture me ? No, no ! I have not. No ' 
But you have sent the torrent through m] 

sou]. 
And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up 
Things that were part of it — inborn feelings 

thoughts — 
I know not what I cling to ! 

Rai. Aymer ! yet 
Heaven hath not closed its gates ! Return, re« 

turn. 
Before the shadow of the palm tree fades 
I' the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time 

Return, 
My brother ! By our early days — the love 
That nurtured us ! — the holy dust of those 
That sleep i' the tomb ! — sleep ! no, they can- 
not sleep ! 
Doth the night bring no voices from the dead 
Back on your soul ? 

Aym. {turning from him.) Yes — hers I 
Rai. {indignantly turning off.) Why should 3 
strive ? 
Why doth it cost me these deep throes to fling 
A weed off ? [ Checking himself. 

Brother, hath the stranger come 
Between our hearts forever ? Yet return — 
Win back your fame, my brother ! 

Aym. Fame again ! 
Leave mc the desert ! — leave it me ! I hate 
Your false world's glittering draperies, that press 

down 
Th' o'erlabored heart ! They have crushed 

mine. Your vain 
And hollow-sounding words are wasted now : 
You should adjure me by the name of him 
That slew his son's j'^oung bride ! — our an- 
cestor — 
That were a spell ! Fame ! fame ! your hand 

hath rent 
The veil from off" your world ! To speak of fame, 
When the soul is parched like mine ! Away ! 
I have joined these men because they war with 

man. 
And all his hollow pomp ! Will you go hence i 
{Fiercely.) Why do I talk thus with a »mr- 

derer f Ay, - 

This is the desert, where true words may rise 
Up unto heaven i' the stillness ! Leave it mc ! — 
The free wild desert ' 

Arab Chief enters. 
Arab. Stranger, we have shared 

The spoil, forgetting not A Christian here 

Ho ! sons of Kedar ! — 'tis De Chatillon 1 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



311 



This ■VI ay ! — surround him ! There's an Emir's 

wealth 
Bet on his life ! Come on ! 

[Several Arabs nish m and surround Rainier, 
^oho, after vainly endeavoring to force his 
way through them, is made prisoner. 
Rai. And he stands there 
Xo see me bought and sold ! Death, death ! — 
not chains ! 
[Aymer, who has stood for a motnent as if 
bewildered, rushes forward, and strikes 
doton one of the Arabs. 
Aym. OiT from my brother, infidel ! 

[The others hurry Rainier aioay. 
( Ttecollecting himself.) Why, then, Heaven 
Is just ! So ! now I see it ! Blood for blood ! 

[Again rushing foricard. 
No ! he shall feel remorse ! I'll rescue him. 
And make him weep for her ! [Exit. 

ACT V. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Fortress occupied by De 
Chatillon's followers. 

Knights listening to a Troubadour. 

ffer. No more soft strains of love. Good 
Vidal, sing 
Th' imprisoned warrior's lay. There's a proud 

tone 
tjf lofty sadness in it. 

Troudaboue sings. 

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! 
And the knight looked down from the Paynim's 

tower. 
And a Christian host in its pride and power 
Through the pass beneath him wound. 
" Cease a while, clarion ! clarion, wild and 

shrill. 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be 
still' 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
Arid I see my brethren's lances gleam. 
And their pennons wave by the mountain stream. 

And their plumes to the glad wind float. 
•• Cease a while, clarion ! &c. 

" I am here with my heavy chain 
Ajid I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
A-nd an eagle rushing to the sky. 

And a host to its battle plain ! 
* Cease a whUe, clarion ! &c. 



" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free oird 

flight, 
And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear ? 
Cease awhile, clarion ! " &c.* 

Aymer enters hurriedly. 
Aym. Silence, thou minstrel ! silence ! 
Her. Aymer here ! 
And in that garb ! Seize on the renegade ! 
Knights, he must die ! 

Ayin. {scornfully.) Die! die! — the fearfvu 
threat ! 
To be thrust out of this same bless6d world. 
Your world — all yours 1 {Fiercely.) But I wil] 

?iot be made 
A thing to circle with your pomps of death. 
Your chains, and guards, and scafl'olds ! Back ! 

I'll die 
As the free lion dies ! [Drawing his sabre. 

Her. What seek'st thou here ? 
Aym. Nought but to give your Christian 
swords a deed 

Worthier than Where's your chief? in 

the Paynim's bonds ! 
Made the wild Arabs' prize ! Ay, Heaven is just I 
If ye will rescue him, then follow me ; 
I know the way they bore him ! 

Her. Follow thee ! 
Recreant I deserter of thy house and faith ! 
To think true knights would foUow thee again ! 
'Tis all some snare — away ! 

Aym. Some snare ! Heaven ! Heaven ! 
Is m}"- name sunk to this ? Must men first crush. 
My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made ? 
— Why, let him perish ! — blood for blood ! — 

must earth 
Cry out in vain ? Wine, wine ! we'll revel here ! 
On, minstrel, with thy song ! 

1 " She preferred in music whatever was national and 
melancholy ; and her strains adapted for singing were, of 
course, framed to the tones most congenial to the tempera- 
ment of her own mind. How successfully wed to the magic 
of sweet sound many of her verses have been by her fii>!er, 
no lover of music need to be reminded. 'The Roman Girl's 
Song' is full of a solemn classic beauty ; and, in one of hel 
letters, it is said that of ' The Captive Knight' SirWallel 
Scott never was weary. Indeed, it seems in his mind to 
have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the Eng- 
lish ; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish ; tli« 
Cancionella Espanola of the Spanish ; and the Rhine Song 
of the Germ;ins." — Biographical Sketch by Delta, 1836. 

" Of all Mrs. Hemans's lyrics set to music, ' The Captivi 
Knight ' has been the most popular, and deservedly so. I( 
has indeed stirred many a heart " like the sound of a trum 
pet." — Chorlet's Memorials. 



376 



DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Tboubadour continues the song. 

" They are gone — they have all passed by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart. 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! clarion, pour thy blast ! 
Sound, for the captive's dream of hope is past ! " 

Aym. {starting up.) That was the lay he loved 
in our boyish days — 
And he must die forsaken ! No, by Heaven ! 
He shall not ! Follow me ! I say your chief 
Is bought and sold ! Is there no generous trust 
Left in your souls ? De Foix, I saved your life 
At Ascalon ! Du Mornay, you and I 
On Jaffa's wall together set our breasts 
Against a thousand spears ! What! have I fought 
Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents. 

And ye can think [Dashing off his turban. 

Look on my burning brow ! 
Read if there's falsehood branded on it — read 
The marks of treachery there ! 
Knights {gathering round him) No, no ! come on ! 
To the rescue ! lead us on ! we'll trust thee 
still ! 

Aijm. Follow, then ! — this way. If I die for him, 
There will be vengeance ! He shall think of me 
To his last hoiir ! [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A Pavilion in the Camp of Mblech. 

Melech, Sadi. 

Mel. It must be that these sounds and sights 
of war 
Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek 
Fades hourly in my sight ! What other cause — 
None, none ! She must go hence ! Choose from 

thy band 
The bravest, Sadi ! and the longest tried, 

And I will send my child 

Voice without. Where is your chief ? 

De Chatillon enters, guarded by Arab and 
Turkish soldiers. 

Arab Chief. The sons of Kedar's tribe have 
brought to the son 
Of the Prophet's house a prisoner ! 

Mel. {half drawing his sioord. Chatillon ! 
That Blew my boy ! Thanks for the avenger's 

hour ! 
Padi, their guerdon — give it them — the gold ! 
And me the vengeance ! 

{ Looking at Rainiee, toho holds the upp&r fragment 
of his sword, a>xd seems lost in tJwught.) 



This is he 
That slew my first-born ! 

Rai. {to himself.) Surely there leaped up 
A brother's heart within him ! Yes, he struck 

To the earth a Paynim 

Mel. {raising his voice.) Christian! thou hast 
been 
Our nation's deadliest foe ! 

Rai. {looking up and smiling proudly.) 'Tisjoy 
to hear 
I have not lived in vain ! 

Mel. Thou bear'st thyself 
With a conqueror's mien ! What is thy hope 
from me ? 
Rai. A soldier's death. 
Mel. {hastily.) Then thou would'st fear a 

slave's ? 
Rai. Fear ! As if man's own spirit had not 
power 
To make his death a triumph ! Waste not words ; 
Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel, 
I slew thy son ! [Looki7ig at his broken sword. 

Ay, there's the red mark here ! 
Mel, {approaching him.) Thou darest to tell me 
this ! [A tumult heard wit/tout. 

Voices toithout. A Chatillon ! 
Rai. My brother's voice ! He is saved! 
Mel. {calling.) What, ho ! my guards ! 

Aymer enters loith the knights., fighting their way 
through Melech's soldiers, wlw are driven he- 
fore them. 

Aym. On with the war cry of our ancient 
house : 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

Knights. For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

[Rainieb, attempts to break from his guards, 
Sadi enters with more soldiers to the as- 
sistance of Melech. Aymee and the 
knights are overpowered. Aymeb is 
wounded and falls. 
Mel, Bring fetters — bind the captives ! 
Rai. Lost — all lost ! 
No ! he is saved ! 

{Breaking from his guards, he goes up to Atmer.) 
Brother, my brother ! hast thou pardoned me 
That which I did to save thee ? Speak ! forgive 

Aym- {turning from him.) 
Thou seest I die for thee ! She is avenged ! 

Rai. I am no murderer ! Hear me ! turn to me 
We are parting by the grave ! 

MoKAiMA enters veiled, and goes up to Melech. 

Mor. Father! O, look not sternly on thy 
chUd. 



DE CHATILLON ; OR. THE CRUSADERS. 



377 



I came to plead. They said thou hast condemned 

A. Christian knight to die 

Mel. Hence — to thy tent ! 
Away — begone ! 
Aym. {attempting to rise.) Moraima ! hath her 
spirit come 
To make death beautiful ? Moraima ! speak ! 
Mor. It was his voice ! Aymer ! 

[Sk^ rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. 
Aym. Thou liv'st — thou liv'st ! 
I knew thou couldst not die ! Look on me still. 
Thou livest ! and makest this world so full of 

joy- 
But I depart ! 

Mel. {approaching her-') Moraima ! hence ! Is 
this 
A place for thee ? 

Mor. Away ! away ! 
There is no place but this for me on earth ! 
Where should I go ? There is no place but this ! 
My soul is bound to it ! 
Mel. {To the guards.) Back, slaves! and look 
not on her ! 

[They retreat to the background. 
'Twas for this 
She drooped to the earth. 

Aym. Moraima, fare thee well ! 
Think on me ! I have loved thee ! I take hence 
That deep love with my soul ! for well I know 
It must be deathless ! 

Mor. O, thou hast not known 
What woman's love is ! Ajiner, Aymer, stay ! 
If I could die for thee ! My heart is grown 
So strong in its despair ! 

B-ai. {turning from them.) And all the past 
Forgotten ! — our young days ! His last thoughts 

hers ! 
The Infidel's ! 

Aym. {with a violent effort turning his head 
round.) Thou art no murderer ! Peace 
Between us — peace, my brother ! In our deaths 
We shall be joined once more ! 

Rai. {holding the cross of the sword before him.) 
Look yet on this ! 

Aym. If thou hadst only told me that she lived ! 
— But our hearts meet at last ! 

[Presses the cross to his lips. 
Moraima ! save my brother ! Ijook on me ! 
Joy — there is joy in death ! 

[He dies on Rainier' s arm. 
Mor. Speak — speak once more ! 
Aymer ! how is it that I call on thee, 
And that thou answer' st not? Have we not 

loved ? 
Death ! death ! — and this is — death ! 
48 



Rai. So thou art gone, 
Aymer ! I never thought to weep again — 
But now — farewell ! Thou wert the bravesi 

knight 
That e'er laid lance in rest — and thou didst weai 
The noblest form that ever woman's eye 
Dwelt on with love ; and till that fatal dream 
Cameo'er thee, Aymer ! Aymer! thou wert still 
The most true-hearted brother ! There thou art 
Whose breast was once my shield ! I neve 

thought 
That foes should see me weep ! but there thou 
art, 

Aymer, my brother ! 

Mor. {suddenly rising.) With his last, last breatH 
He bade me save his brother ! 

{Falling at Melech's feet.) Father, spare 
The Christian — spare him ! 

Mel. For thy sake spare him 
That slew thy father's son ! Shame to thy race . 

{To the soldiers in the background.) 
Soldiers ! come nearer with your levelled spears ! 
Yet nearer ! — gird him in ! My boy's young 

blood 
Is on his'sword. Christian, abjure thy faith, 
Or die : thine hour is come ! 

Rai. {turning and throwing himself on the weap- 
ons of the soldiers.) Thou hast mine an- 
swer. Infidel ! 
[ Calling aloud to the knights as he falls back. 
Knights of France ! 
Herman ! De Foix ! Du Mornay ! be ye strong : 

Your hour will come ! 

Must the old war cry cease ? 
[Half raising himself, and waving the Cross 
triumphantly. 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! [He dies, 

( The curtain falls.) 

ANNOTATION ON " DB CHATILLOIf." 

[" The merits of ' The Siege of Valencia' are more of a 
descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind ; and abounding 
as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with 
striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted fot 
representation, but, on the contrary, the characters are de- 
veloped by painting much more than by incident. Withal, 
it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not 
rhetorical, but diffuse. 

" From the previous writings of the same author, and 
until the appearance of The Vespers of Palermo,' it seemed 
to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs. 
Hemans was not of a dramatic cast — that it expatiated too 
much in the development of sentiment, too much in th« 
luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under th 
trammels essentially necessary for the success of scenie 
dialogue. 

" The merits of ' The Vespers ' are great, and have been 



acknowledped to be » , not c.ily by the liigliest of contom- 
>orary literarj' authorities, but by tlie still more unequivocal 
testimony of theatrical applause. What 'has been, has 
been,' and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so 
fairly earned ; but we must candidly confess, that before the 
perusal of ' De Chalillon,' (although that poem is probably 
not quite in tlie state iu which it would have been submit- 
ted to tlie world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected 
with the prevailing opinion, tiiat the most successful path of 
Mrs. Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our 
opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered ; and 
we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the char- 
acters of Rainier — so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal 
love, and now by public duty — and of Aymer and Morai- 
ma, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to 
principle — that, by the cultivation of this species of com- 
position, had health and prolonged years been the fate of 
the author of ' De Chatillon,' that tragedy, noble as it is, 
which umst now be placed at the head of her dramatic ef- 
forts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in 
excellence by ulterior efforts. 



" Mrs. Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. I 
is quite evident that she had succeeded in unbihing new an 
more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She hai 
passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally 
termed the dramatic poem — from the ' Historic Scenes ' to 
' Sebastian ' and ' The Siege of Valencia ; ' but ' The Ves- 
pers of Palermo ' and ' De Chatillon ' can alone be said to 
be her legitimate dramas. 

" The last, however, must be ranked first, by many de- 
grees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that 
richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, ol 
condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so 
commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage 
as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in 
this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amidst scenes 
allied with romance — brevity and effect, in situations 
strongly alluring to amplification ; and, in her delineation 
of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of 
the heart, there is exhibited a knowledge of nature's work- 
ings, at once minute, faitliful, and affecting." — MS. CriHgui 
by A.] 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 

" Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffered bonds." — Remorse ; a Tragedy. 

[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying 
from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North 
American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst tlie wilderness which has afforded him an 
asylum.] 



The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night ! 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths -nath unalloyed delight ! 
I hear them still, tmchanged : though some from 

earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
"Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more 

bright — 
Have died in others, yet to me they come 
Binging of boyhood back — the voices of my 

home! 



They call me through this hush of woods re- 
posing 

tn the gray stillness of the summer morn ; 

They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, 

And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars 
are bom. 



Even as a fount's remembered gushings burst 
On the parched traveller in his hour of thirsty 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till 

worn 
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say — 
O for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee 

away. 



And find mine ark ! Yet whither ? I must 

bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air — 
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright 

wave. 
And sighing through the feathery canes — hath 

power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be. These skies above me spread — 
Are they my own soft skies ? — Ye rest not her% 

my dead ! 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



379 



Ve far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear ; 
Save one ! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head. Ye rest not here ! — 
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, 
Net thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing 
rtiijugh my own chestnut groves, which fill 

mine ear ; 
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the 

ocean shell. 



Peace ! I will dash these fond regrets to earth. 
E'en as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me 

birth, 
And lineage, and once home — my native 

Spain ! 
My own bright land — my fathers' land — my 

child's ! 
What hath thy son brought from thee to the 

wilds ? 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain. 
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze ; 
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe — 

thy gifts are these ! 



A blighted name ! I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds are not of this ! I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves 

quiver : 
Their sounds are not of this ! — the cedars, 

waving, 
Lend it no tone : his wide savannas laving. 
It is not murmured by the joyous river ! 
What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its 

heart is known ? 



Is it not much that I may wrrship Him 
With nought my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim. 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts ? Shall I not rejoice 
That I have lea: -led at last to know His voice 
From man's ? i will rejoice ! — my soaring soul 
Now hath red emed her birthright of the day. 
And won, through clouds, to Him her own un- 
fettered way ! 



And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, 
Filled with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without dis- 
guise ; 
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, 
When I have checked its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh befor« 

me rise ! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful 
air? 



Why should I weep on thy bright head, my 

boy ? 
Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell. 
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, 
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling wavea 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves ? 
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel. 
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have bornft. 
Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow 

of scorn. 



This shall not be thy lot, my bless6d child I 

I have not sorrowed, struggled, lived in vain. 

Hear me ! magnificent and ancient wild ; 

And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main, 

As deep meets deep ; and forests, whose dim 
shade 

The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells per- 
vade ; 

Hear me ! 'Tis well to die, and not complain ; 

Yet there are hours when the charged heart 
must speak, 

E'en in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break ! 



I see an oak before me : ' it hath been 
The crowned one of the woods ; and might hara 
flung 

1 " I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical tempera 
meiit, expressing the kind of horror which he felt on be- 
holding, on the banks of the A' issoiiri, an oak of prodigious 
size, which had been in a manner overpowered by an 
enormous wild grape vine. The vine had clasped its huge 
folds round the trunk, and from thence had wound about 
every branch anii twig, until the mighty tree had withered 
in its embrace. It seemed like Laocobn struggling ineffect- 
ually in the hideous coils of the monster Python.'' — Bract 
bridge Hall. Chapter on Forest Trees. 



Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green 
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung, 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bond- 
age throwing. 
Till iho proud tree, before no tempest bowing, 
Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among. 
Alas ! alas ! what is it that I see ? 
An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with 
thee! 



Yet art thou lovely ! Song is on thy hills : 
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 
That lulled my boyhood, how your memory thriUs 
The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain ! 
Your sounds are on the rocks : — that I might 

hear 
Once more the music of the mountaineer ! 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic 

race. 



But there was silence one bright, golden day, 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Cleai', 

yet lone, 
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone ; 
And the red grapes untrodden strewed the 

ground ; 
And the free flocks, untended, roamed around. 
Where was the pastor ? — where the pipe's wild 

tone? 
Music and mirth were hushed the hills among, 
While to the city's gates each hamlet poured its 

throng. 



Silence upon the mountains ! But within 

The city's gate, a rush, a press, a swell 

Of multitudes, their torrent way to win ; 

And heavy boomings of a duU deep bell, 

A dead pause following each — like that which 

parts 
The dash of biUows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear — kneU after knell ; 
And sounds of thickening steps, hke thunder rain 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing 

fane ! 



What pageant's hour approached ? The sullen 

gate 
Of a strong ancient prison house was thrown 



Back to the day. And who, in mournful 

state, 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold stone t 
They that had learned, in cells of secret gloom. 
How sunshine is forgotten ! They to whom 
The very features of mankind were g^-own 
Things that bewildered ! O'er that dazzled sight 
They lifted their wan hands, and cowered before 

the light ! 



To this, man brings his brother ! Some were 

there. 
Who, with their desolation, had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, e'en as warriors bind 
The breastplate on for fight ; but brow and cheek 
Seemed theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 
And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out ; they smiled — O, star- 
tling smile. 
Whence man's high soul is fled ! Where doth 
it sleep the while ? 



But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain — 
Heaven's off'ering from the land of chivalry ! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved — 
0, how unlike all others ! — the beloved. 
The free, the proud, the beautiful ! whose eye 
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath 
Was hushed, and its one soul bound in the 

thought of death ! 



It might be that, amidst the countless throng, 
There swelled some heart with pity's weight 

oppressed : 
For the wide stream of human love is strong ; 
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast 
Childhood is reared, and at whose knee the sigh 
Of its first prayer is breathed — she, too, was 

nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footstep blessed, 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles, — and there- 
fore all were still. 



All still, — youth, . lurage, strength ! — a wintei 

laid, 
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind ! 



THE FOEEST SANCTUARY. 



J^ 



Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade, 
they stood, those breathless masses of mankind, 
Still, as a frozen torrent ! But the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom ; they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assigned 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse ? They saw, and 
thought it well. 



And T, too, thought it well ! . That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round me clung 
The spirit of my own ! No hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw 
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watched the fearful rites ; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up. 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poi- 
son cup. 



But I was wakened as the dreamers waken. 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread 
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken. 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 
On their own threshold floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shattered by the 

might 
Of the swift thunder stroke ; and freedom's tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain. 
Making the blighted place all green with life 

again. 



otill darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky. 
Dreamlike I saw the sad procession pass. 
And marked its victims with a tearless eye. 
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought. 
On the sharp edge of sad mortality ; 
TiU in his place came one — O, could it be ? 
My friend, my heart's first friend ! — and did I 
gaze on thee ! 

XXIU. 

On thee ! with whom in boyhood I had played, 

At the grape gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams ; 
And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood, 
And in whose hehn was brought — O, earned 

with blood ! — 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 



Smote on my fevered brow ! Ay, years had 

passed. 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! — and thm 

we met at last! 



I see it still — the lofty mien thou borest ! 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power — 
The very look that once thou brightly worest, 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour. 
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, 
'Midst the white Andes — even as mountain deer, 
Hemmed in our camp ; but through the javelin 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
And thou — hadst thou but died with thy true 

brethren there ! 



I call the fond wish back — for thou hast perished 
More nobly far, my Alvar ! — making known 
The might of truth ; ' and be thy memory 

cherished 
With theirs, the thousands that around her 

throne 
Have poured their lives out smUing, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown. 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread. 
Filling man's heart and home with records of 

the dead. 



Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread 

sight 
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies. 
But the scarce-owned unwhispered thought of 

night. 
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and 

depth can see, 
That this man's crime was but to worship thee, 
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, 
The called of yore — wont by the Savior's side 
On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide. 

XXVII. 

For the strong spirit will at times awake, 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God ; 

1 For a must interesting account of tlie Spanish Protes- 
tants, and the hemic devotion with which they met the spirit 
of perseciition in the sixteenth century, see the iinarte' % 
Review, No. 57, art. " Q,uin's Visit to Soain." 



382 



TIIE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And even for this — O dust, whose mask is 

power ! 
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little 

hour ! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod. 
And therefore thou destroyest ! — where Vere 

flown 
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree 

alone ! 

XXVIII. 

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 

On him, my friend ; while that swift moment 

threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanished days, 
Like water drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick 

blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew. 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn, 
That watches through the field his mother's 

voungest born. 



But a lance met me in that day's career — 
Senseless I lay amidst the o'ers weeping fight ; 
Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory flashed ! — the shivery 

light, 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter. 
The fountain side, the low sweet sound of 

water — 
And Alvar bending o'er me — from the night 
Covering me with his mantle. All the past 
Flowed back ; my soul's far chords all answered 

to the blast. 



Till, in that rush of visions, I became 
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound. 
Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame, 
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound. 
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 
Jroubled even thus I stood, but chained and 

bound 
On that familiar form mine eye to keep : 
Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and weep ! 

XXXI. 

He passed me — and what next ? I looked on 

two, 
Following his footsteps to the ssme dread place, 



For the same guilt — his sisters ! ' Well I kne^f 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face 
Was changed — so deeply changed! — a dun- 
geon's air 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. 
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race. 
Queen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez ! — flowers 
So cherished ! were ye then but reared for tho8« 
dark hours ? 



A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left ! 
With your lutes hanging hushed upon the wall. 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely father ! doomed to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline ; 
A.nd, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall. 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you 
to shame ! ^ 

XXXIII. 

And woe for you, 'midst looks and words of love. 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move, 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song !— 
Yet sat, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to 

shun, 
Half veiled upon the pale clear brow of one. 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong — 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery 

sway. 
Within the drooping shade of her swee.' eyelids 

lay. 

1 "A priest named Gonzalez had, among other. prose- 
lytes, gained over two young females, his sisters, to the Prot- 
estant faith. All three were confined in the dungeons of 
the Inquisition. The torture, repeatedly applied, could nc« 
draw from them the least evidence against tlieir religir'ia 
associates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a recan- 
tation from the two sisters, since the constancy and learning 
of Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theologicnl victory 
Their answer, if not exactly logical, is wf n'ierfully simple 
and afiecting: — ' We will die in the faith of c ir lirother: 
he is too wise to be wrong, and too good to ceceive us.' 
The three stakes on which they died were near each other. 
The priest liad been gagged till the moment of lighting up 
the wood. The few minutes that he was allowed to speak 
he eiii|iloyed in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung 
the 109th Psalm, rill the flames smothered their voices."^ 
Q_u.artcihj Review, No. 57, " Quin's Visit to Spain." 

2 The names not only of the immediate victims of the 
Inquisition were devoted to infamy, but those of all theu 
relations were branded with the same indelible stain, whicb 
was likewise to descend as an inheritance to tl""ir lateel 
posterity. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



388 



And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It -was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet would she smile — and that, too, hath its 

smile — 
Circled with joy which reached her not the while, 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 

XXXV. 

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, 
A treasure all undreamt of, — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 
Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till then suppressed 
Almost with pain, and bursting from control, 
And finding first that hour their pathway free : 
Could a rose brave the storm, such might her 
emblem be ! 

XXXVI. 

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, 
Was fled ; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung 
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn — 
Pride — sense of wrong ; ay, the frail heart is 

bound 
By these at times, even as with adamant round. 
Kept so from breaking ! Yet not thus upborne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's 

wave 
Lifted her fervent soul > — a sister for the brave ! 



And yet, alas ! to see the strength which clings 
Round woman in such hours ! — a mournful 

sight. 
Though lovely ! — an o'erflowing of the springs. 
The full springs of affection, deep as bright ! 
And she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears — therefore she 

thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 

fh 2refore didst thou^ through that heart-shaking 

scene, 
A? through a triumph move ; and cast aside 



Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's 

mien, 
O faithful sister ! cheering thus the guide, 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth, 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified ; 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the 

past. 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at 

last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, 
'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which 

grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, 
The sheltered of one roof ; and thus it rose 
Twined in with life. How is it that the hours 
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose. 
And mingling one first praj'er in murmurs soft, 
From the heart's memory fade in this world's 

breath so oft ? 



But thee that breath hath touched not ; thee, 

nor him. 
The true in all things found ! — and thou werf 

blest 
E'en then, that no remembered change could 

dim 
The perfect image of aifection, pressed 
Like armor to thy bosom ! Thou hadst kept 
Watch by thy brother's couch of pain, and wept, 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest 
Fled from the sufferer ; thou hadst bound his faith 
Unto thy soul ; one light, one hope ye chose — 

one death. 



So didst thou pass on brightly ! — but for her. 
Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken 1 
All Merciful ! to think that such things were. 
And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken ! 
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been 
So strewed with rose leaves, all one fairy scene J 
And whose quick glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods 
rejoice ! 

XLII. 

And she to die ! — she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves anij 
flowers ! 



S84 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Was not her smile e'en as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow coloring vernal showers ? 
Yes ! but to meet her fawnlike step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, 
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull 
decav ! 



Could this change be? The hour, the scene, 

where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
A golden vintage eve ; the heats were passed, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind. 
Her father sat where gleamed the first faint star 
Through the Hme boughs ; and with her light 

guitar. 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laughed up ; some shepherd lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at 

play. 



And now — God ! — the bitter fear of death, 
The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread. 
Had grasped her ! — panting in her quick-drawn 

breath. 
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led. 
She looked up with her dim, bewildered eyes. 
And there smiled out her own soft, brilliant 

skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread, 
Glowing with joy, but silent ! — still they smiled, 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem- 
bling child. 

XLV. 

Alas ! that earth had all too strong a hold. 
Too fast, sweet Inez ! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor know how cold 
The hours which follow. There was one, with 

whom. 
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried. 
Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have 

died ; 
But he was far away ; and with thy doom 
Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, 
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold, 

mortal fear ! 



No aid ! — thou too didst pass ! — and all had 

passed, 
fhe fearful, and the desperate, and the strong ! 



Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along ; 
And some as men that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield : 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the thiong 
Rolled on, and bore me with their living tide, 
E'en as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 



Wave swept on wave. We reached a stately 

square. 
Decked for the rites. An altar stood or high, 
And gorgeous, in the midst : a place far prayer, 
And praise, and offering. Could the eayth supply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall ? 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die, 
As when before their God the patriarchs stood ? 
Look down ! man brings thee. Heaven, his 

brother's guiltless blood ! 



Hear its voice, hear ! — a cry goes up to thee, 
From the stained sod ; make thou thy judgment 

known 
On him the shedder ! — let his portion be 
The fear that walks at midnight ; give the moan 
In the wind haunting him a power to say, 
" Where is thy brother ?" and the stars a ray 
To search and shake his spirit, when alone. 
With the dread splendor of their burning eyes ! 
So shall earth own thy will — Mercy, not sac- 
rifice ! 

XLIX. 

Sounds of triumphant praise ! the mass was 

sung — 
Voices that die not might have poured such 

strains. 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung. 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, 
Had quelled her foes — so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free ! 
Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanea, 
Hath filled the choral forests with its power, 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of 

that hour. 



It died away ; the incense cloud was driven 
Before the breeze — the words of doom wer« 

said ; 
And the sun faded mournfully from heaven : 
He faded mournfully, and dimly red, 



parting in clouds from those that looked their 

last, 
And sighed, *' Farewell, thou sun ! " Eve glowed 

and passed ; 
Nig,nt — midnight and the moon — came forth 

and shed 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot. 
Save one — a place of death — and there men 

slumbered not. 



'Twas not within the city,' but in sight 
Of the snow-crowned sierras, freely sweeping. 
With many an eagle's eyry on the height, 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far oif ; and vales between, and vineyards lay. 
With, sound and gleam of waters on their way, 
And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping 
In manv a peasant home ; the midnight sky 
Brought softly that rich, world round those who 
came to die. 



The darkly- glorious midnight sky of Spain, 

Burning with stars ! What had the torches' glare 

To do beneath that temple, and profane 

Its holy radiance ? By their wavering flare, 

I saw beside the pyres — I see thee maw, 

bright Theresa ! with thy lifted brow, 

And thy clasped hands, and dark eyes filled with 

prayer ; 
And thee, sad Inez ! bowing thy fair head. 
And mantling up thy face, all colorless with 

dread ! 



And Alvar, Alvar ! — I beheld thee too, 
Pale, steadfast, kingly : till thy clear glance fell 
On that young sister ; then perturbed it grew. 
And all thy laboring bosom seemed to swell 
With painful tenderness. Why came I there. 
That troubled image of my friend to bear 
Thence, for my after years ? — a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise. 
Disquieting my dreams with its bright, mourn- 
ful eyes ? 



Why came I ? — O, the heart's deep mystery ! — 

Why, 
Iq man's last hour, doth vain affection's gaze 

« The piles erected for these executions were without the 
lowns, and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, 
from the length nf the preceding ceremonies, delayed till 
niidnight 

49 



Fix itself down on struggling agony, 
To the dimmed eyeballs freezing as they glaze ? 
It might be — yet the po-wer to will seemed o'er — 
That my soul yearned to hear his voice once 

more ! 
But mine was fettered ! — mute in strong amaze, 
I watched his features as the night wind blew. 
And torchlight or the moon's passed o'er their 

marble hue. 



The trampling of a steed ! A tall, white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest — came at speed, 
And a wild voice cried " Inez ! " Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound : 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dashed off' fiercely those who came to part. 
And rushed to that pale girl, and clasped her t<^ 
his heart. 



And for a moment all around gave way 

To that full burst of passion. On his breast 

Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay, 

But blest — in misery's very lajD, yet blest ! 

O love, love, strong as death ! — from such ar 

hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power ; 
Holy and fervent love ! had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be weaned to die without 

despair ? 



But she — as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming — thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck — with such a trusting fold, 
A full, deep sense of safety in their hold. 
As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbind. 
Alas ! a child's fond faith, believing still 
Its mother's breast beyond the hghtning's reach 
tokiU! 



Brief rest ! upon the turning billow's heigb.t 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain 
Floating between the savage gusts of night, 
That sweep the seas to foam. Soon dark again 
The hour, the scene ; th' intensely present riished 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed 
Like blood drops from a victim — with s^^'if t rain 



S86 



THE FOREST SANCrUARY. 



Bathing the bosom where she leaned fhat hour, 
As if her life would melt into th' o'ers welling 
shower. 



But he whose arm sustained her ! — O, I knew 
'Twas vain ! — and yet he hoped — he fondly 

strove 
Sack from her faith her sinking soul to woo, 
As life might yet be hers ! A dream of love 
Which could not look upon so fair a thing, 
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring. 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move. 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth. 
Could mean the sting of death for her soft flower- 
ing youth ! 



He wooed her back to life. " Sweet Inez, live ! 
My blessed Inez ! — visions have beguiled 
Thy heant ; abjure them ! thou wert formed to 

give 
And to find joy ; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever ? Leave me not, mine own ! 
Or earth will grow too dark ! — for thee alone, 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a 

child, 
And bore thine image with me o'er the sea, 
Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak ! 0, yet live 

for me ! " 



She looked up wildly ; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look — sad eyes of troubled 

thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's ! • Did her childhood rise. 
With all its pure and home aftections fraught, 
In the brief glance ? She clasped her hands — 

the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak 
Must, in the rending storm, not quiver only — 

break ! 



And thus it was. The young cheek flushed 

and faded, 
As the swift blood in currents came and Avent, 
And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent 
Through its white fluttering Kds. Then trem- 
blings passed 
O'er the frail form, that shook it as the blast 
Shakes the srre leaf, until the .spirit rent 



Its way to peace — the fearful way unknown. 
Pale in love's arms she lay — she ! — what had 
loved was gone ! 



Joy for thee, trembler ! — thou redeemed one, 

joy! 

Young dove set free ! — earth, ashes, souUesi 

clay, 
Remained for baflled vengeance to destroy. 
Thy chain was riven ! Nor hadst thou cast away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love waa 

there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 
And life seemed robed in beautiful array, 
Too fair to leave ! — but this might be forgiven, 
Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts 

of Heaven ! 



But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye. 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die — 
That she indeed could die ! — for, wild and vain 
As hope might be, his soul had hoped : 'twas 

o'er — 
Slowly his falling arms dropped from the form 

they bore. 



They forped him from that spot. It might be 

well. 
That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell. 
Like spray drops from the strife of torrents flung. 
Were marked as guilt. There are who note 

these things 
Against the smitten heart ; its breaking strings 
— On whose low thrills once gentle music 

hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, 
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strangt 

tones replying. 



But je in solemn joy, O faithful pair ! 
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 
I saw your features by the torch's glare, 
And they were brightening with a heavenwairi 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away ; 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



381 



A.nd peace was there - - the calmness of the just ! 
A.nd, bonding down the slumberer's brow to kiss, 
" Thy rest is won," he said, " sweet sister ! 
Praise for this ! " 



I started as from sleep ; — yes ! — he had 

spoken — 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source ! 
At once the torpor of my soul was broken — 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. 
There are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
That so your ice chains, O ye streams ! unbind. 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course ! 
I burst from those that held me back, and fell 
Rven on his neck, and cried — " Friend ! broth- 
er ! fare thee well ! " 

LXVIII. 

Did he not say, " Farewell " ? Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the 

throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veiled too 

long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart, 
/fis hour was come — but in mine anguish strong. 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, 
Blindly I rushed away from that which was to be. 



"vway — away I rushed ; but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, 
Till the transparent darkness of the skj' 
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in their hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they 

streamed. 
With their wild splendor chasing me ! I knew 
The death work was begun — I veiled mine eyes. 
Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the 

victims' cries. 



What heard I then ? — a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as forever haunts the tortured ear ? 
I heard a sweet and solemn- breathing strain 
Piercing the flame, untremulous and clear ! 
The rich, triumphal tones ! — I knew them well. 
As thoy came floating with a breezy swell ! 
Man's voice was there — a clarion voice to cheer 
In the mid battle — ay, to turn \.he flying ; 
Woman's — that might have sung of heaven be- 
side the dying ! 



It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream oi' melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe ! 
Alvar ! Theresa ! — what is deep ? what strong 
— God's breath within the soui ! It filled tha< 

song 
From your victorious voices ! But the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased : 
Faint grew the sounds — more faint : I listened 

— they had -ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And thou indeed hadst perished, my soul'a 

friend ! 
I might form other ties — but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown ! 
Others might aid me onward; thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, 
Once flowering — never more ! And thou wert 

gone ! 
Who could give back mj' youth, my spirit free, 
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me ! 



And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep — there gathered round thy 

name 
Too deep a passion. Thou denied a grave ! 
Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had 1 not known thy heart from childhood's 

time ? 
Thy heart of hearts ? — and couldst thou die foj' 

crime ? 
No ! had all earth decreed that death of shame, 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee I 

LXXIV. 

There are swift hours in life — strong, rushing 

hours, 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks and 

towers 
Unto th' \indoubting mind ; they pour in light 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ; 
They sweep the coloring mists from off our sight ; 
They touch with fire thought's graven page, the 

roll 
Stamped with past years — and lo ! it shrivels 

as a scroll ! 



588 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



LXXV. 

And this was of such hours ! The sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seemed whelming me ; the 

glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorched up my heart with breathless thirst 

for air. 
And solitude, and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene. 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky, 
Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man's dim 

destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I would have called, adjuring the dark cloud ; 
To the most ancient heavens I would have said, 
" Speak to me ! show me truth ! " ' — through 

night aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back ! and show me truth ! " My spirit 

seemed 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teemed 
With such pent storms of thought ! Again I 

fled, 
I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely 

fane. 

liXXVII. 

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast ! 
Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Ere while its gorgeous pavement, seemed to brood 
Like mist upon the stately solitude ; 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men ; 
And all was hushed as night in some deep Alpine- 
glen. 



More hushed, far more ! — for there the wind 

sweeps by. 
Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play ; 
Here a strange echo made my very sigh 
Seem for the place too much a sound of day ! 
Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, 

fading. 
Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading. 

1 For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures 
perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind struggling against 
habit and superstition in its first aspirations after truti>, see 
'.'he admirable Letters from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado. 



And I Stood still : prayer, chant had died away; 
Yet past me floated a funereal breath 
Of incense. I stood still — as before God and 
death. 

LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed ! ' 
Dust — imaged forms — with cross, and shield, 

and crest ; 
It seemed as if your ashes would have started 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of j'ore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore 
Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast ! 
I could have poured out words, on that pale air. 
To make your proud tombs ring. No, no ! I 

could not there! 

LXXX. 

Not 'midst those aisles, through which a thou- 
sand years. 
Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on, their marble kept ! 
Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb ! 
And you, ye dead ! — for in that faith ye slept, 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my 

heart. 
Which could not there be loosed. I turned me 
to depart. 



I turned : what glimmered faintly ori my sight — 
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ? The moon, the 

night. 
Had waned, and down poured in — gray, 

shadowy, slow. 
Yet dayspring still ! A solemn hue it caught 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 
And, soft and sad, that coloring gleam was thrown 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar 

shone. 

2 " You walk from end to end over a floor of tombstones 
inlaid in brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and 
crosiers, and spears, and shields, and lielmets, all mingled 
together — all worn into glass-like smoothness by the feet 
and the knees of long-departed worshippers. Around, on 
every side, each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed 
from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest or the 
loftiest that of old came thither to worship — their image* 
and their dying prayers sculptured among the resting-places 
of their remains " — From a beautiful description of ancient 
Spanish Cathedrals, In Peter's .Letters to his Kin^ulk- 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



38 



Thy form, thou Son of God ! — a wrathful deep, 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee 

spread. 
And such a weight of night ! — a night, when 

sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. 
A bark showed dim bej'ond Thee, with its mast 
Bowed, and its rent sail shivering to the blast ; 
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread. 
Thou, as o'er glass, didbt walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path 

for Thee. 

LXXXIIl. 

So still thy white robes fell ! — r no breath of air 
Within their long and slumberous folds had sway. 
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy clear brow flowed droopingh'' away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee. Savior ! — 

dark 
The gulfs, Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! 
But Thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was poured one stream of pale, broad, silvery 

light : 
Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

night ! 

LXXXIV. 

Aid for one sinking ! Thy lone brightness 

gleamed 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave, 
With its worn, fearful, human look, that seemed 
To cry, through surge and blast — "I perish — 

save ! " 
Not to the winds — not vainly ! Thou wert nigh. 
Thy hand was stretched to fainting agony. 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave ! 
O Thou that art the life ! and yet didst bear 
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal 

prayer ! 

LXXXV. 

But was it not a thing to rise on death, 
With its remembered light, that face of thine, 
R3deemer ! dimmed by this world's misty breath, 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine ? 
0, that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty ! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! — a shrine 
Where power sat veiled, yet shedding softly 

round 
What told tha- Thou couldst be but for a time 

uncrowr ed ! 



LXXXVI. 

And, more than all, the heaven of that sad 

smile! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, ere while 
Pour its o'ershadowed beauty on the dust ? 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloiio 

hung o'er Thee ? — 
Surely thou wert ! My heart grew hushed before 

Thee, 
Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way : 
What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, 

and pray ? 

LXXXVII. 

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry, 
Amidst the dead — " By that full cup of woe, 
Pressed from the fruitage of mortality. 
Savior ! for Thee — give light ! that I may 

know 
K by thy will, in thine all-healing name. 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame, 
And early death ; and say, if this be so. 
Where, then, is mercy ? Whither shall we 

flee, 
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on Thee ! 

LXXXVIII. 

•' But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly 

treading. 
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave ? 
And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet avsrful, shed- 
ding, 
Beheld a weeper at a mortal's grave ? 
And is this weight of anguish, which they bint' 
On life — this searing to the quick of mind, 
That but to God its own free path would crave — 
This crushing out of hope, and love, anc 

youth, 
Thy will, indeed ! Give light J that I may kno^ 
the truth ! 

LXXXIX. 

" For my sick soul is darkened unto death, 
With shadows from the suffering it hath seen 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from beneath me — whereon shall I lean ? 
O, if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh 
Of the dust's anguish ! if Uke mf^n to die — 
And earth round him shuts heavily — hath beea 
Even to Thee bitter, aid me ! guide me ! turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back froK 
their starless bourn ! " 



S<Jti 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And c aimed I ros** ■. hx^t h^y^ THe while had risen 
Morn's orient sun, dissolving xB-st ard shade ! 
Could there indeed be wroni^, or chai'x, nr prison, 
In the bright world such radiance nairht pervade ? 
It filled the fane, it mantled the uale ■Por'u 
Which rose before me through the picturc^l rtorm, 
E'en the gray tombs it kindled, and arr<*ypd 
With life ! — How hard to see thy race be^,-'n. 
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to <A.e, 
O Sun! 



I sought my home again ; and thou, my chi''!, 
There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine. 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter ' hal\ I 

beguiled \ 

A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine ; 
Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, didst meet 
My coming with young smiles, which yet, 

though sweet, 
Seemed on my soul all mournfully to shine. 
And ask a happier heritage for thee. 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 



Now sport, for thoi\ art free ! the bright birds 

chasing. 
Whose wings waft starlike gleams from tree to 

tree ; 
Or -with the fawn, thy swift wood playmate, 

racing, 
Sport on, my joyoiis child ! for thou art free ! 
Yes, on that day I took thee to mj' heart, 
And inly vowed for thee a better part 
To choose ; that so thy sunny bursts of glee 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 

woe. 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on — as now 

they flow. 

XCIII. 

Thou hast a rich world round thee — mighty 

shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head. 
With the light melting through their high arcades, 
As through a pillared cloister's ; " but the dead 

1 " El' lampeggiar de I'angelico riso." — Petrarch. 

2 « Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades 
if moss-grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs 
first suggested that Gothic architecture beneath whose 
poii.ted arches, where they had studied and prayea, the 
party-colored windows shed a tinged light ; scenes which 
Uie gleams of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, and 



Sleep not beneath ; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass 
Yet thou, by fount and forest murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest ! to thee is shown 
Earth in her holy pomp, decked for b^ God 
alone. 



PAET II. 

Wie diese treue liebe Seele 
Von ihrem Glauben vol], 
Der ganz allein 

Ihr selig machend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Das sie den Uebsten Mann verloren Iialten soil. — Fa.'% 

I never shall smile more — but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my soul. — WiLSOif. 



t^iMN« n>e the sounding of the torrent water, 
WHh yet s nearer swell ! Fresh breeze, awake ! 
Ard Tivei_ darkening ne'er with hues of slaugh- 

ti^r 
Thy wave's pure silvery green ; ar\d shining lake, 
Spread far before my ."abin, with thy zone 
Of ancient wood^, ve "hamicss iJ^ings and lone , 
Send voices through the foiC'St aisles, and make 
Glad music round me. thai my soul may dare, 
Cheered by such tones, to Ir>ok back on a dun- 
geon's air ! 



O Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 
That with the spear, at times, or bended bow, 
Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase 
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe ; 
Thou that beside the red night fire thou heapest, 
Beneath the cedars and the starlight sleepest, 
Thou know'st not, wanderer — never mayst then 

know ! — 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth, 
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' 

mirth. 



There, fettered down from day, to think the while 
How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing, 

flickering on the variegated turf below, might have recalled 
to their memory." — Webster's Oration on the Landing of 
the Pilgrim Fathers in New England. — See Hodgson's 
Letters from J^orth America, vol. ii. p. 305. 

3 The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in 
an interesting work of Mrs. Grant's : " On the opposite sida 
the view was bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty 
pines, from which a waterfall descended, which not only 
gave animation to the sylvan scene, but was the best ba- 
rometer imaginable ; foretelling by its varied and intelligiblf I 
sounds every approaching change, not only of the weathei I 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



391 



Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile, 
plush like the rose ; and how the streams are 

flowing 
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass, 
And water flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing 
With their full foliage : this to know, and pine 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot 

— 'twas mine ! 



Wherefore was this ? Because my soul had drawn 
Light from the Book whose words are graved in 

light ! 
There, at its well head, had I found the dawn. 
And day, and noon of freedom ; but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given, 
And called the truth — the verj' truth, from 

heaven ! 
And therefore seeks he in his brother's sight 
To cast the mote ; and therefore strives to bind, 
With his strong chains, to earth what is not 

earth's — the mind. 



It is a weary and a bitter task 

Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 

And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's 

mask, 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings ; making e'en of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad, and night, and sleep. 
I might not brook it long, and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 



And I, a child of danger, whose delights 
Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas — 
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 
Had given Castdian banners to the breeze, 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows ; ' and in my country been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
To the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life, or the soul's life, quenched on that sepul- 
chral spot ? 



Because Tfum didst not leave me, O my God ! 
Ihou wert with those that bore the truth of old 

but of the wind." — Memoirs of an American Lady, vol. i. 
p. 143. 

1 The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst the 
^des, are described bj' Ulloa 



Into the deserts from th' oppressor's rod. 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold ^ 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead. 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed ; 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with Thee ; and 

Thou 
Wert in the midst, felt, owned — the Strength- 

ener then, as now ! 



Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind ! 
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it 

blow ? 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined, 
The shadows of the past, that come and go, 
As o'er the deep the old, long-bxiried things 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings. 
Is the reed shaken — and must we be so. 
With every wind ? So, Father, must we be. 
Till we can fix undimmed our steadfast eyes or 

Thee. 



Once my soul died within me. What had thrown 
That sickness o'er it? Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown. 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had bought ! 
Perchance the damp roof's water drops that 

fell 
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell, 
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone from memory of the music welling 
Ever with that fresh rUl, from its deep rockv 

dwelling. 



But so my spirit's fevered longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint, sad sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around.* 

2 Many striking instances of the vividness with which th« 
mind, when strongly excited, has been known to renovate 
past impressions, and embody them into visible imagery, are 
noticed and accounted for in Dr. Hibbert's Philosophy of 
Apparitions- The following illustrative passage is quoted in 
the same work, from the writings of the late Dr. Ferriar: — 
" I remember that, about the age of fourteen, it wasasourcs 
of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any 
interesting object in the course of the day, such as a roman- 
tic ruin, a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon 
as evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a dark 
room, the whole scene was brought before my eyes with 
a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight, 
and remained visible for several minutes. I have no doubt 
that dismal and frightful images have been thus oresented 



892 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Yes ! kindling, spreading, brightening, h.ue by 

hue. 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom, it 

grew. 
That haunt of youth, hope, manhood ! till the 

bound 
Of my shut cavern seemed dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of 

sky. 



I looked — and lo ! the clear, broad river flowing 
Past th< old Moorish ruin on the steep, 
The lone u "er dark against a heaven all glow- 
ing. 
Like seas of gla^s and fire ! I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side, 
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide. 
And the red evening on its waves asleep ; 
And 'midst the scene — O, more than all ! — 

there smiled 
My child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my 
child! 



With their soft eyes of love and gladness 

raised 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by tll^t river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset. But a flood 
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppressed ; 
And I rushed forward, with a yearning breast. 
To clasp — alas ! — a vision ! Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light 
Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my 

sight. 



Then darkness ! — O, th' unutterable gloom 
That seemed as narrowing round me, making less 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom, 
That bright dream vanished from my lonehness ! 

to young persons after scenes of domestic affliction or public 
horror." 

Tlie following passage frOm the Mcazar of Seville, a tale 
or historical sketch, by the author of Deblado's Letters, 
affords a further illustration of this subject. " When de- 
scending fast into the vale of years, I strongly fix my mind's 
eye on those narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed 
the scented air which came rustling through the surround- 
ing groves ; where the footsteps reechoed from the clean 
watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke 

of quiet and contentment ; the objects 

around me begin to fade into a mere delusion, and not only 
the thoughts, but the external sensations, which I then ex- 
perienced, revive with a reality that almost makes me shud- 
der — it has so much the character of a trance or vision." 



It floated off, Ihe beautiful ! yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess. 
And prayed to die. How oft would sorrow weep 
Her weariness to death, if he might come lika 
sleep ! 



But I was roused — and how ? It is no talc. 
Even 'midst thy shades, thou wilderness ! to tell. 
I would not have my boy's young cheek made 

pale, 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befeU 
In that drear prison house. His eye must grow 
More dark with thought, more earnest his fail 

brow, 
More high his heart in youthful strength must 

swell ; 
So shall it fitly burn when all is told : 
Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet 

infold. 



It is enough that through such heavy hours 
As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 
I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 
To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 
Shall the wild Indian for his savage fame 
Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high 

name 
Bear up her martj'rs with aU-conquering sway ? 
It is enough that torture may be vain : 
I had seen Alvar die — the strife was won from 

Pain. 



And faint not, heart of man ! Though yeeurs 

wane slow, 
There have been those that from the deepest 

caves, 
And cells of night, and fastnesses below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have 

nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watched their time, and 

burst 
On the bright day, like wakeners from the 

graves ! 
I was of such at last ! — unchained I trod 
This green earth, taking back my freedom from 

my God ' 

XVII. 

That was an hour to send its fadeless trace 
Down life's far-sweeping tide ! A dim, wild night 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



39S 



Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face, 
Yet how my heart leaped in her blessed light ! 
The shepherd's light — the sailor's on the sea — 
The hunter's homeward from the mountains free, 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! — I could but gaze 

through tears. 
O, what a sight is heaven, thus first beheld for 

years ! 



The rolling clouds ! — they have the whole blue 

space 
Above to sail in — all the dome of sky ! 
My soul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom ; but I had yet to fly. 
As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot 
And strange I knew — the sunbeam knew it 

not, — 
Wildest of all the savage glens that lie 
In far sierras, hiding their deep springs. 
And traversed but by storms, or sounding ea- 
gles' wings. , 



Ay, and I met the storm there ! I had gained 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rained 
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head ; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood, 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore. 
When Afric's tambour shook the ringing west- 
ern shore. 



But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling : 
i — Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling. 
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thundered down beside my cave. 
Booming it rushed, as booms a deep sea wave ; 
A falcon soared ; a startled wild deer passed ; 
A far-off' bell tolled faintly thr'^ugh the roar. 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds 

once more ! 



And "with the arrowy lightnings ! — for they 

flashed, 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents 

aayhed 

fiO 



Up, feven to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife, 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuoiu 

life. 
And all the mountain voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy ? 'Twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that wove but one long dead 

of night ! 



There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon. 
And lit me to my home of youth again. 
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft at 

noon, 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain 
In gentle sleep. But now I passed as one 
That may not pause where wood streams whis- 
pering run. 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain ; 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind. 
The foe's quick, rustling step close on. the le»Tes 
behind 



My home of youth ! O, if indeed to part 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thing, 
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart. 
And bearing all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on — is it less to meet. 
When these are faded ? — who shall call it sweet ? 
E'en though love's mingling tears may haply 

bring 
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
Teach us how much is lost of all that once waa 

ours ! 



Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow, 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing 

sky. 
Nor the fair flower scents,' as they come and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
— O, not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have 

wrought ; 
But by the saddened eye, the darkened brow 
Of kindred aspect, and the long dim gaze, 
Which tells us we are changed — how changed 

from other days ! 

1 " For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the 
aire (where it comes and goes like tlie warbling of musickj 
than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for thai 
delight than to know what be the flowers and plants whicb 
doe best perfume the aire." — Lobd Bacon's lisav on 
Gardens. 



S94 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Before my father, in my place of birth, 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth, 
The love that reared me knew my face no more ! 
There hung the antique armor, helm and crest. 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast ; 
There drooped the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears ; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was I ? — another and 
the same ! 

XXVI. 

Then bounded in a boy, with clear, dark eye — 
How should he know his father ? When we 

parted. 
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy, 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him followed one, the 

bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried ! 
Her glance met mine — I could not speak — she 

started 
With a bewildered gaze — until there came 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

name. 



She knew me then ! I murmured " Leonor! " 
And her heart answered ! O, the voice is known 
First from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images, with one low tone 
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is 

faded, 
And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone ! 
— Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was 

fled, 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe 

and dread. 

xxvin. 
For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers, and know that they must 

fall 
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds clustered on the lonely wall ! 
We were the last — my boy and I — the last 
Of a long line which brightly thence had passed ! 
My father blessed me as I left his hall — 
With his deep tones and sweet, though full of 

years, 
He blessed me there, and bathed my child's 

young htad with tears. 



I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down. 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deemed it) on the clear renown, 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he blessed me ! Father ! if the dust 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame 
Dim the bright day no more; and thou wilt 

know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bowed thine 

age with woe ! 



And thou, my Leonor ! that unrepining, 
If sad in soul, didst qiiit all else for me. 
When stars, the stars that earliest rise, are shin- 
ing, 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of 

thee! 
For on our flight they smiled ; their dewy rays, 
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 
Back to the home we never more might see. 
So passed we on, like earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above theit 
Eden burning. 

XXXI. 

It was a woe to say, " Farewell, my Spain ! 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell ! " 
— I could have died upon the battle plain 
For thee, my country ! but I might not dwell 
In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of 

song 
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along ; 
The citron's glow is caught from thbAe and 

dell: 
But what are these ? upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts 

out to God ! 



O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
Strange heart of man ! that e'en 'midst woe swells 

high, 
When through the foam he sees his proud bark 

sweep, 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes ! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind, 
His spirit rises with the rising wi^d ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity. 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main 
Seems rushing, like his hope, some happier shora 

to gaiua 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



390 



XXXIII. 

tfot thus is woman. Closely l^r still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing 
Which, long remembered, seemed to bear its part 
In her calm joys. Forever would she cling, 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children 

birth, 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

spring 
Arraj' no path, renew no flower, no leaf. 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to fare- 
well grief. 



I looked on Leonor, — and if there seemed 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleamed, 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes. 
Misty with tender gloom, I called it nought 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gor- 
geous West ! 



O, could we live in visions ! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast, 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 
That which we see not, and are therefore blest ! 
But they, our loved and loving — they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 
Their looks and accents, unto ours addressed. 
Have been a language of famUiar tone 
Too long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and 
unknown. 



I told my heart, 'twas but the exile's woe 
Which pressed on that sweet bosom ; I deceived 
My heart but half : a whisper, faint and low, 
Haunting it ever, and at times believed, 
Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seei» 
Like those that dreanw, and k7ww the while they 

dream — 
'Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved 
And troubled, while bright phantoms round 

them play, 
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away ! 



yet, as if chasing joy, I wooed the breeze 
Id speed me onward with the wings of mom. 



(), far amidst the solitary seas. 

Which were not made for man, what man hath 

borne. 
Answering their moan with his ! — what thwA 

didst bear. 
My lost and loveliest ! while that secret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its duU brooding weight, gave way at last, 
Beholding me as one &om hope forever cast ' 



xxxvni. 
For unto thee, as through all change, revealed 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield. 
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise ; - 
By the stiU hope sustained, ere long to win 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within 
My thoughts unfettered to their source migh 

rise. 
Like songs and scents of morn. But thou didst 

look 
Through all my soul, and thine e'en unto faint 

ing shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fallen, fallen, I seemed — yet, O, not less be- 
loved, 
Though from thy love was plucked the early 

pride. 
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved. 
And seared with shame ! Though each young 

flower had died, 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the 

less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet stiU such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroie 
face. 



Yes ! thou hadst followed me through fear and 

flight! 
Thou wouldst have followed had my pathway 

led 
E'en to the scaff'old ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with 

dread. 
Thou, 'midst the hush of thousands, wouldst 

have been 
With thy clasped hands beside me kneeling seep 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head - 
The shame ! — O, making beautiful to view 
The might of human love — fair thing ! so brave- 
ly true ! 



There was thine agony — to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. Hereto- 
fore, 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell, 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touched thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded, never more 
Couldst thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy 

heart. 
Since at heaven's gate it seemed that thou and 
I must part. 



Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance — 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirred) — 
A flush — a fading of the cheek, perchance — 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word, 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath. 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with 

death ! 
E'en thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. I knew that in thy sight 
I stood, howe'er beloved, a recreant from the 

hght. 



Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
O, the deep soul it breathed ! — the love, the woe. 
The fervor, poured in that full gush of song. 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With aU their vesper voices, o'er the main, 
Which seemed responsive in its murmuring flow. 
" Avcy sanctissima ! " — how oft that lay 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr strength 
away ! 

Ave, sanctissima ! 
'Tis nightfall on the sea ; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our soiils rise to thee ! 

Watch us, while shadows lie 
O'er the dim waters spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh — 
Thine too hath bled ! 

Thou that hast looked on death. 
Aid us when death is near ! 

Whisper of heaven to faith ; 
Sweet Mother, hear ! 



Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our 

Ora, Mater, ora ! 
Thou star of the deep ! 



" Ora pro nobis, Mater ! " — What a spell 

Was in those notes, with day's last glory dyinj 

On the flushed waters — seemed they not to 

swell 
From the far dust wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? O, yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear ! 
" Ora " — with all the purple waves replying. 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 

chain ! 



Torture ! the sorrow of aff"ection's eye. 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony, 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
With a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven 
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor ! 
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could 

share : 
Alas ! for those that love, and may not blend in 

prayer ! 



We could not pray together 'midst the deep, 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, 
Through days of splendor, nights too bright for 

sleep. 
Soft, solemn, holy ! We were on our way 
Unto the mighty Cordillera land. 
With men whom tales of that world's golden 

strand 
Had lured to leave their vines. O, who shall say 
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touched aU its molten seas with sunset's 

alchemy ! 

XLVII. 

Thoughts no more mingled ! Then came night 

— th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars ! I saw thee shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 
O Southern Cross ! ' as when thy radiant sign 

1 " The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross 
was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in tlk 
colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we la lil a star as 



first drew my gaze of youth. No, not as then ; 
I had been stricken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days ; and now thy light di- 
vine 
Looked on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suf- 
fering love. 

XLVIII. 

But thou, the clear, the glorious ! thou wert 

pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring, 
Stood in tlie lengthening shadow of the grave ! 
Alas ! I watched her dark religious glance, 
As it still sought thee through the heaven's ex- 
panse. 
Bright Cross ! and knew not that I watched 

what gave 
But passing lustre — shrouded soon to be — 
A soft light found no more — no more on earth 
or sea ! 



I knew not aU — yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart, "Wake, ocean wind ! I said : 
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness dressed, 
"Where, through rich clouds of foliage o'er her 

head. 
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by, 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread ! 
But the calm bound us 'midst the glassy main: 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers 

again. 



Yes ! as if heaven upon the waves were sleeping, 
Vexing my soul ■with quiet, there they lay, 

friend from whom we have long been separated. Among 
the Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to 
increase this feeling ; a religious sentiment attaches them 
to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the 
faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New 

World It has been observed at what hour 

of the night, in difTerent seasons, the Cross of the South is 
erect or inclined. It is a timepiece that advances very reg- 
ularly near four minutes a day, and no other group of stars 
exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so easily 
made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the 
savannas of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from 
Lima to Truxillo, ' Midnight is past — the Cross begins to 
bend ! ' How often these words reminded us of that affect- 
ing scene where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source 
of the river of Lataniers, conversed together for the last 
time ; and where the old man, at the sight of the Southern 
Cross, warns them that it is time to separate ! " — De Hum- 
ioldt's Tranels. 



All moveless, through their blue transparenct 

keeping 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; 
While she O, strongest is the strong heart's 

woe — 
And yet I live ! I feel the sunshine's glow — 
Ana I am he that looked, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adoved too 

much ! — 
It is a fearful thing to love what death may 

touch. 



A fearful thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world ! She faded on — and I, 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had marked a change ; 
But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, thougl- 

strange : 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas ! too perilously brigb* ' 



And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild. 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all- wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
How could it thus deceive me ? She had 

worn 
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, 
A pensive tenderness, through happiest days ; 
And a soft world of dreams had seemed to \w 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye 



And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she 

died. 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
The day was melting from the waters wide, 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts 

had been, 
It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearn- 
ing, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turn- 
ing ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage scene. 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath: 
O, with what vivid hues life comes back oft on 
death ! 



And from her lips the mountain songs of old 
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung ; 



S98 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The " Rio verde," ' on her soul that hung, 
And thence flowed forth. But now the sun 

was low, 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stUls the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Ora, Mater !" and the sound 
Was e'en like love's farewell — so mournfully 

profound. 



The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet ; 
" And I have lulled him to his smiling rest 
Once more ! " she said. I raised him — it was 

sweet, 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm, which blessed 
His look that hour: for now her voice grew 

weak, 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek. 
With her white lips, a long, long kiss she 

pressed. 
Yet light, to wake him not. Then sank her head 
Against my bursting heart. What did I clasp ? 

— The dead! 



I called ! To call what answers not our cries — 
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard — 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, 
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirred ; 
And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze. 
All vainly searching for the parted rays — 
This is what waits us ! Dead ! — with that chill 

word 
To link our bosom names ! For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 



But the true parting came ! I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face : 
How could I think the lovely spirit passed 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — 
No ! not like sleep to look upon art thou. 
Death, Death ! She lay, a thing for earth's 

embrace, 
To cover with spring wreaths. For earth's ? — 

the wave, 
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan 

above her grave ! 

1 " Rio verde ! rio verde ! " the popular Spanish romance, 
known to the English reader in Percy's translation : — 

" Gentle river I gentle river I 
Lo, thy streams are stained with gore ; 
Many a brave and noble captain 
Floats along thy willowed shore," etc. 



On the mid seas a knell ! — for man was there, 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead ! 
A long, low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread — 
And the pale shining Southern Crois on high, 
Its faint stars fading fiom a solemn sky. 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red : 
Were these things round me ? Such o'er memory 

sweep 
Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of 

the deep. 



Then the broad, lonely sunrise ! — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! * Around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash. 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! No mark the proud seas keep, 
To show where he that wept may pause again 
to weep ! 



So the depths took thee ! O, the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compressed ! 
Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! Dust J - '■ 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed. 
Thus sinking ! Love, joy, fear, all crushed tp 

this — 
And the wide heaven so far — so fathomless 

th' abyss ! 



Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks 

lie low. 
What shall wake thence the dead ? Blest, blest, 

are they 
That earth to earth intrust, for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's 

clay 
Shall rise at last ; and bid the young flowers 

bloom 

2 De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a yojng Astu 
rian at sea, mentions the entreaty of the officiating priest^ 
that the body, which had been brought upon deck during 
the night, might not be committed to the waves until aftel 
sunrise, in order to pay it the last rites according to the usag 
of the Romish Church. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



399 



ITiat waft a breath of hope around the tomb ; 

And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 

But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered 

thee f 
Vain dreams ! - - 0, art thou not where there is 

no more sea ? ' 



The wind rose free and singing: when forever, 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavor 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to 

strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind ! Before our prow 
The white foam flashed — ay, joyously, and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart. 
And thy meek, sorrowing love — 0, where could 

that depart ? 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of woe ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friends — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wUd farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave was sent. 
Thou, there most lonely ! He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even If blent 
With a vain worship ; for its close is dim 
Ever with grief which leads the wrung soul 

back to Him ! 



And with a milder pang if now I bear 

To think of thee in thy forsaken rest. 

If from my heart be lifted the despair. 

The sharp remorse with healing influence 

pressed ; 
If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep 
Look not reproach, though still they seem to 

weep ; 
It is that He my sacrifice hath blessed, 
And filled my bosom, through its inmost cell, 
With a deep chastening sense that all at last is 

well. 



Yes ! thou art now O, wherefore doth the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair, 
The seaweed into its dark tresses wrought, 
The sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair ! 

I Aa*" there was no more sea." — Revelation, xxi. 1. 



Come o'er me still ? Earth, earth ! it is the V, -.Id 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould ! 
But thou art breathing now in purer air, 
I well believe, and freed froni all of error. 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet Jif 
with terror. 



And if the love, which here was passing light, 
Went with what died not — O that ihis we 

knew, 
But this : that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true, 
Would speak, and say, if in their far repose. 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead ! Their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath to perish ? Holier trust 
Be mine ! — thy love is there, but purified from 

dust! 

LXVII. 

A thing all heavenly — cleared from that which 

hung 
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils 

flung 
A chain so darkly with its growth intwined. 
This is my hope ; though when the sunse. 

fades, 
Whetf forests rock the midnight on their shades. 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind, 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
For the strong hours will sway this frail mor 

tality ! 



We have been, wanderers since those days of woe, 
Thy boy and I. As wild birds tend their young 
So have I tended him — my bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes' torrents borne his form. 
Where our frail bridge had quivered 'midst the 

storm.'' 
But there the war notes of my country rung, 

2 The bridges over many deep chasms among,=it the Andef 
are pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial 
plants. Their tremulous motion is thus alluded to in ont 
of the stanzas of Oertrude of Wyoming .- — 

" Anon some wilder portraiture he dniwa, 
Of nature's savage glories he would speak; 
The loneliness of earth, that ovei-awes, 
Wliere, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama driver on Peruvians peak 
Nor voice nor living motion marks around, 
But storks that to tlie boundless forest shriek, 
Or wild cane arch, high flung o'er gulf profound. 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado go nnil." 



too 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled 
To hide in shades unpierced a marked and weary- 
head. 



But he went on in gladness — that fair child ! 
Save -when at times his bright eye seemed to 

dream, 
Ajid his young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Asked of his mother. That was but a gleam 
Of memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wide llanos ' cheered again our way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream," 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise music 

borne : 



So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone, 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear ; 
Such as might reach us from a world unknown, 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and 

fear ! 
'Twas sweet; yet those deep southern shades 

oppressed 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves ; ^ I sighed to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage 

fanned. 
And turned to seek the wilds of the red hunt- 
er's land. 



And we have won a bower of refuge now, 
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose 
Hath cooled, like dew, the fever of my brow. 
And whose green oaks and cedars round me 

close 
As temple walls and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude ; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone — our loved of early years, 
Gone whore affection's cup hath lost the taste 

of tears. 

1 Llanos, or savannas, the great plains in South America. 

2 De HuMiholdt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the 
Oronoco. Travellers liave heard from time to time subter- 
raneous sounds proceed from tliem at sunrise, resembling 
those of an organ. He believes in the existence of this 
mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to have 
heard it liimself; and thinks that it may be produced by 
currents of air issuing through the crevices. 

3 The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to 
the extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of 
the New World, and particularly on the thickly-wooded 
shores of the Oronoco. " In this neighborhood," he says, 
" no breath of wind ever agitates the foliage." 



LXXII. 

I see a star — eve's first born ! — in whose train 
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The ar- 
rowy spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane. 
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire ; 
The pine gives forth its odors, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touched to answer ; its most secret tone 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers 
all its own. 

LXXIII. 

And hark ! another murmur on the air, 
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades ! 
That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear, 
Pilling the leafy twilight of the glades 
With hollow, surge-like sounds, as from the bed 
Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead 
But they are far ! The low sun here pervades 
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold 
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to be- 
hold, — 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom ! In such an hour. 
The vesper melody of dying beUs 
Wanders through Spain, from each gray con- 
vent's tower 
O'er shining rivers poured and olive dells. 
By every peasant heard, and muleteer. 
And hamlet, round my home ; and I am here, 
Living again through all my life's farewells. 
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 
spoken, [broken ! 

And sole I lift to heaven a sad heart — yet un- 



In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by : 
Peace be with all, whate'er their varying creeds. 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high ! 
Come to me, boy ! By Guadalquivir's vines. 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
We too will pray : nor yet unheard, my child. 
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the 
wild. 

LXXVI. 

At eve ? 0, through all hours ! Prom dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



40. 



Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft, 
And low, my loved one ' on the breast of night. 
I look forth on the stars, the shadowy sleep 
Of forests, and the lake whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fireflies' light : 
A lonely world ! e'en fearful to man's thought, 
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul 
hath sought. 

CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON " TUB rOREST SANCTUAKY." 

[" In the autumn of lis-ii sne oegan tne puem wnicn, in 
point of finish and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may 
b« considered her principal work, and which she herself in- 
clined to look upon as Her besi. ' I am at present,' f he wrote 
to one always interested in her literary occupations, ' en- 
gaged upon a poem of some length, the idea of which was 
suggested to me by some passages in your friend Mr. Blanco 
White's delightful writings.i It relates to the sufferings of 
a Spanish Protestant, in the time of Philip the Second, and 
is supposed to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who es- 
capes to America. I am very much interested in ray sub- 
ject, and hope to complete the poem in the course of the 
winter.' The progress of this work was watched with great 
interest in her domestic circle, and its touching descriptions 
would often extract a tribute of tears from the fireside audi- 
tors. When completed, a family consultation was held as 
to its name. Various titles were proposed and rejected, till 
that of ' The Forest Sanctuary ' was suggested by her broth- 
er, and finally decided upon. Though finished early in 
1825, the poem was not published till the following year, 
when it was brought out in conjunction with the ' Lays of 
Many Lands,' and a collection of miscellaneous pieces." — 
Memoir, p. 81. 

" Mrs. Hemans may be considered as the representative 
of a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her 
poetry discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which 
belong almost exclusively to that of later times, and have 
been the result of the gradual advancement, and especially 
the moral progress of mankind. It is only when man, un- 
der the influencft of true religion, feels himself connected 
with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are 
fully dei'eloped. The poetry of an immortal being must be 
of a different character from that of an earthly being. But, 
in recurring to the classic poets of antiquity, we find that In 
their conceptions the element of religious faith was wanting. 
Their mythology was to them no object of sober belief; and, 
had it been so, was adapted not to produce but to annihilate 
devotion. They had no thought of regarding the universe 
as created, animated, and ruled by God's all-powerful and 
omniscient goodness."— Professor Norton, in Christian 
Examiner 

" We will now say a few words of ' The Forest Sanc- 
tuary ;' but it so abounds with beauty, is so highly finished, 
and animated by so generous a spirit of moral heroism, that 
we can do no justice to our views of it in the narrow space 
which our limits allow US. A Spanish Protestant flies from 
tiersecutlon at home to religious liberty in America. He 
lias imbibed the spirit of our own fathers, and his mental 
struggles are described in verses, with which the descendants 
of the Pilgrims must know how to sympathize. We dare 
not enter on an analysis. From one scene at sea, in the 
second part, we will make a few extracts. The exile is 

1 " Letters from Spain, by Don Leucadio Doblado." 
51 



attended by his wife and child, but his wife remains true to 
the faith of her fathers. 

' Ora pro nobis, Mater I ' what a spell 
Was in those notes,' etc 

" But we must cease making extracts, for we could not 
transfer all that is beautiful in the poem without transferring 
the whole." — JVnrth American Review, April, 1827. 

" Mrs. Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not 
altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes 
say, that in proportion to the praisie which had been bestowed 
upon other of her less carefully meditated and shorter com- 
positions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair share 
.-' ..«^ct:ss , ibr it was the first continuous effort in which 
she darea to write from the fulness of her own heart — to 
listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. 
The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the letters 
of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her 
with that eagerness and fervor which almost command cor- 
responding results. I have heard Mrs. Hemans say, that 
the greater part of this poem was written in no more pic 
turesque a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being de- 
tached from the house, she resorted to for undisturbed quiet 
and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to her 
mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the in- 
creased power displayed in It. She was not prone to speak 
with self-contentment of her own works, but, perhaps, the 
one favorite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea 
burial in the second canto, — 

' She lay a thing for earth's embrace,' etc. 

" The whole poem, whether in Its scenes of superstition — 
the Auto da Fe, the dungeon, the flight, or In its delineation 
of the mental conflicts of its hero — or in its forest pictures 
of the free West, which offer such a delicious repose to thc- 
mlnd, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. 
Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as i 
write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a char- 
acter of one of the martyr sisters. 

' And if she mingk'd with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dunce of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar.' 

" But the entire episode of ' (iueen-like Theresa — radiant 
Inez,' is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse which 
men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the lat- 
ter, if, perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern reali- 
ties of the scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot b 
read without strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered 
And most beautiful, too, are the sudden outbursts of thank- 
fulness — of the quick happy consciousness of liberty with 
which the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice interrupts the 
tale, to reassure himself, 'Sport on, my happy child ! foi 
thou art free.' The character of the convert's wife, Leimor, 
devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a reproach or a 
murmur, while her heart trembles before him as though shf 
were in the presence of a lost spirit, is one of those in whlci 
Mrs. Hemans's individual mode of thought and manner o 
expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she 
was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem j and 
on recently turning to it, I have been surprised tn find how 
well it bears the tests and trials with which it is only eithel 
fit or rational to examine works of the highest order of 
mind." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs. Hemans, pp. 126, 
127. 

" If taste and elegance be titles to enduring fame, we 
might venture securely to promise that rich boon to the 
author before us, who adds to those great merits a tender- 
ness and loftiness of feeling, and an ethereal purity of sen- 



402 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



timent, which could only emanate from the soul of a woman. 
She must beware of becoming too voluminous, and must not 
venture again on any thing so long as ' The Forest Sanc- 
tuarj'.' But if the next generation inherits our taste for 
short poems, we are persuaded it will not readily allow her 



to be forgotten. For we do not hesitate to say that she i6^ 
beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplished 
writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet tg 
boast of." — Lord Jepfhst, in Edinburgh Review, October, 
1829.] 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



[The following pieces may so far be considered a series, a> each is intended to be commemorative of some nationa 
recollection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's " Stimmen der V'dlker in Liedem; " th« 
execution is, however, different, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations.] 



MOORISH BRIDAL SONG. 

[" It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who 
dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, 
and the bridal song is sung over her remains before they are 
borne from her home." — J^Tarrative of a Ten Years' Resi- 
dence in Tripoli, by the Sister-in-law of Mr. Tully.] 

The citron groves their fruit and flowers were 

strewing 
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing 
With music through their shadow^y bowers went 

by; 
Music and voices, from the marble halls 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain 

falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling 
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, 
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem- 
crowned maids ; 
And thus it flowed : — yet something in the lay 
Belonged to sadness, as it died away. 

" The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years ; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling ; 
She comes like dayspring — she hath done with 

tears ; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, ■ 
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours ! — 
Pour the rich odors round ! 

" "We haste ! the chosen and the lovely bringing ; 
Love still goes with her from her place of birth; 
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing, 
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth ! 



Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep — but she hath done with tears 1 
Now may the timbrel sound ! " 

Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers ? — 
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more ! 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers, 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. 
Weep for the young, the beautiful, — the dead! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 

[The Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring 
cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, over 
which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded 
to in the description of Yitgiwa.'s funeral. — See Paul and 

Virginia.] 

Go forth ! for she is gone ! 
With the golden light of her wavy hair, 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

Her voice hath passed away ! 
It hath passed away like a summer breeze^ 
When it leaves the hills for the far clue seas, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye. 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky. 

And what is our grief to thee ? 

Is it aught e'en to her we mourn ? 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed I 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



40) 



Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle 
head, 
Or" float, on the light wind borne ? 

We know not — but she is gone ! 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, 
And the smile of her e5'e from the festal throng ; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

When the waves at sunset shine, 
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more. 
In the scented woods of our glowing shore ; 

But we shall not know 'tis thine ! 

Even so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by, 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh. 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth ! we have loosed thy chain ! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers 
Which the bright day rears in our Eastern 
bowers ; 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast. 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, 

But it wins her back no more ! 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 

A NORTHEBN LEGEND. 

[The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in Stark- 
tther, a tragedy by tha Danish poet OchlenschUger. The 
(epulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the 
Bshes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the 
Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit 
were supposed by tlie Scandinavian mythologists to be the 
consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre. — See 
Ochlenschlager's Plays.'] 

" Voice of the gifted elder time ! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme ! 
Speak ! from the shades and the depths disclose 
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes ; 

Voice of the buried past ! 
Voice of the grave ! 'tis the mighty hour 
When night with her stars and dreams hath 

power, 
And my step hath been soundless on the snows, 
4.nd the spell I have sung hath laid repose 

On the bUlow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North 
And the forest pines were still, 



While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead. 
But where the day looks not the brave may 

tread ; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is poured, 
But the warrior may come to the silent board 

In the shadow of the night. 
There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb. 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman'a 

doom ; 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep. 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 

For the viewless have fearful might ' ' 

Then died the solemn lay. 
As a trumpet's music dies. 
By the night wind borne away 
Through the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir trees rocked to the wailing blast. 
As on through the forest the warrior passed — 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old — 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 

By the fires of Northern pine. 
The fir trees rocked, and the frozen ground 
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound ; 
And it seemed that the depths of those awful 

shades, 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades. 

Gave warning, with voice and sign 

But the wind strange magic knows, 
To call wild shape and tone 
From the gray wood's tossing boughs. 
When night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom. 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb : 
The Pole star shone, and the heavens wer« 

bright 
With the arrowj' streams of the Northern light 

But his road through dimness lay ! 
He passed, in the heart of that ancient wood. 
The dark shrine stained with the victim' 

blood ; 
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead. 

Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast* 
And the steel-clad man stood still 
Before that placr of rest. 



(04 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



But lie crossed at length, with a deep-drawn 

breath, 
The threshold floor of the hall of Death, 
And looked on the pale raysterious fire 
Wtlch gleamed from the urn of his warrior 

sire 
With a strange and solemn light. 
Then darkly the words of the boding strain 
Aiiivc on omen rose on his soul again — 
•' Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
Axud move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 
For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle day 
Hung o'er that urn, revealed 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray ; 

"With a faded -wTeath of oak leaves bound. 
They hung o'er the dust of the far renowned, 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had called to the banquet where gods rejoice, 

And the rich mead flows in light. 
With a beating heart his son drew near. 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear — 
" Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 

For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

And many a Saga's rhyme, 
And legend of the grave. 
That shadowy scene and time 
Called back, to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm — and the flame grew 

dim. 
And the sword in its light seemed to wave and 

swim, 
And his faltering hand could not grasp it well — 
From the pale oak wreath, with a calsh it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead ! 
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, 
And the urn lay shivered in fragments round : 
And » rush, as of tempests, quenched the 

fire. 
And the scattered dust of his warlike sire 
Was strewn on the champion's head. 

One moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall. 
When the rock had ceased to thrill 
With tho mighty weapon's fall. 

Tbe stars were just fading one by one, 

rhtS clouds were just tinged by the early sun, 



When there streamed through the caTem a 

torch's flame, 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 
Stretched on his shield, like the steel-giri 

slain, 
By moonlight seen on the battle plain. 
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there ; 
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare 

Burst on him through the gloom. 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the hour of chase is near : 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here ? " 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 

I have scattered the dust of my warrior sire ! 

It burns on my head, and it weighs down my 

heart ; 
But the winds shall not wander without their 

part 
To strew o'er the restless deep ! 
In the mantle of death he was here with me 

now — 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow ; 
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell — 
O, chill is the house of sleep ! " 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the reddening sun shines clear ; 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
It is dark and fearful here ! " 

"He is there, he is there, with his shadowy 

frown ! 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown — 
The crown from his head, and the spear from his 

hand — 
They have chased him far from the gloriom 

land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread ! 
He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, 
He must ride o'er the grave hills with stormjl 

speed ! 
His place is no longer at Odin's board. 
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword / 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead ! " 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest ; 
But its fiercest work was done 
In tLe tomb, on Sigurd's breast ! 



1.AYS OF MANY LANDS. 



40A 



VALKYRIUR SONG. 

[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, 
Were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in 
battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. 

When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obse- 
quies were honored with all possible magnificence. His 
amis, gold and silver, war horse, dc>mestic attendants, and 
whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on 
Ihe pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a 
point of honor to die with their leader, in order to attend on 
his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And, lastly, 
his wife was generally consumed with him on the same 
pile. — See Mallet's JVorthern Antiquities, Herbert's 
Helga, &c.] 

" Tremblingly flashed th' inconstant meteor light, 
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth ; 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seemed 
On the fixed brightness of each dazzling cheek 
Strange and unnatural." Milman. 

The Sea King woke from the troubled sleep 

Of a vision-haunted night, 
And he looked from his bark o'er the gloomy 
deep, 
And counted the streaks of light ; 
For the red sun's earliest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day 
To the stormy joy of fight ! 

But the dreams of rest were still on earth, 

And the silent stars on high, 
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin 
hearth 
'Midst the quiet of the sky ; 
And along the twilight bay, 
In their sleep the hamlets lay, 
For they knew not the Norse were nigh ! 

The Sea King looked o'er the brooding wave, 

He turned to the dusky shore. 
And there seemed, through the arch of a tide- 
worn cave, 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 
And forth, in watery light. 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Blowly they moved to the billow side ; 

And the forms, as they grew more clear, 
Beemed each on a tall, pale steed to ride, 
And a shadowy crest to rear. 
And to beckon with faint hand 
From the dark and rocky strand. 
And to point a gleaming spear. 



Then a stillness on his spirit fell, 

Before th' unearthly train. 
For he knew Valhalla's daughters ■well 
The Choosers of the slain ! 
And a sudden rising breeze 
Bore, across the moaning seas, 
To his ear their thrilling strain. 

" There are songs in Odin's Hall 
For the brave ere night to fall ; 
Doth the great sun hide his ray ? 
He must bring a wrathful day ! 
Sleeps the falchion in its sheath ? 
Swords must do the work of death ! 
Regner ! Sea King ! thee we call ! 
There is joy in Odin's Hall. 

" At the feast, and in the song, 
Thou shalt be remembered long ; 
By the green isles of the flood. 
Thou hast left thy track in blood ! 
On the earth, and on the sea, 
There are those will speak of thee ! 
'Tis enough — the war gods call ; . 
There is mead in Odin's Hall. 

" Regner ! tell thy fair-haired bride 
She must slumber at thy side , 
Tell the brother of thy breast 
E'en for him thy grave hath rest. 
Tell the raven steed which bore thee. 
When the wild wolf fled before thee, 
He too with his lord must fall : 
There is room in Odin's Hall. 

" Lo ! the mighty sun looks forth — 
Arm ! thou leader of the North ! 
Lo ! the mists of twilight fly — 
We must vanish, thou must die ! 
By the sword and by the spear, 
By the hand that knows no fear, 
Sea King ! nobly thou shalt fall ! — 
There is joy in Odin's Hall." 

There was arming heard on land and wave, 

When afar the sunlight spread. 
And the phantom forms of the tide-«»JW 
cave 
With the mists of morning fled ; 
But at eve, the kingly hand 
Of the battle axe and brand 
Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 



THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 

A SWISS TKADITION. 

[Tlie three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are 
thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Ijucerne. The 
herdsmen call them the Three Tells ; and say that they lie 
there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when 
Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and 
regain the liberties of the land. — See Quarterly Review, 
No. 44.] 

The Griitli, where the confederates held their nightly 
meetings, is a meadow on the shoreof the Lake of Lucerne, 
or Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest Sea.] 

O, ENTER not yon shadowy cave, 

Seek not the bright spars there, 
Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave 
With freshness fill the air : 

For there the Patriot Three, 
In the garb of old arrayed, 
By their native Forest Sea 
On a rocky couch are laid. 

The Patriot Three that met of yore 

Beneath the midnight sky, 
And leagued their hearts on the GrQtli shore 
In the name of liberty ! 

Now silently they sleep 

Amidst the hills they freed ; 
But their rest is only deep 

Till their country's hour of need. 

niey start not at the hunter's call, 

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry, 
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 
Nor the Lauwine thundering by. 
And the Alpine herdsman's lay. 
To a Switzer's heart so dear! 
On the wild wind floats away, 
No more for them to hear. 

Bnt when the battle horn is blown 

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 
Through their eagles' lonely sky ; 

When the spear heads light the lakes, 

*.Vhen trumpets loose the snows. 
When the rushing war steed shakes 
The glacier's mute repose ; 

W^hen Uri's beechen woods wave red 

In the burning hamlet's light — 
Thc7i from the cavern of the dead 
Shall the sleepers wake in might ! 

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap 
When away the helm he flung, 



And boldly up the steep 

From the flashing billow sprung ! ' 

They shall wake beside their Forest Sea, 

In the ancient garb they wore 
When they linked the hands that made ui 
free. 
On the GrQtli' s moonlight shore ; 
And their voices shall be heard, 

And be answered with a shout, 
Till the echoing Alps are stirred, 
And the signal fires blaze out. 

And the land shall see such deeds again 

As those of that proud day 
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain, 
Through the serried spears made way; 
And when the rocks came down 

On the dark Morgarten dell, 
And the crowned casques,* o'erthrown, 
Before our fathers fell ! 

For the Kohreihen's ' notes must never sound 

In a land that wears the chain. 
And the vines on freedom's holy ground 
Untrampled must remain ; 

And the yellow harvests wave 

For no stranger's hand to reap. 
While within their silent cave 
The men of GrOtli sleep ! 



SWISS SONG, 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate 
the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solem- 
nity ; p.ssembling in the open air on the fields where theil 
ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by th« 
priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of th« 
day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to 
chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where 
masses are sung for the souls of the departed. — See Plaw- 
ta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet they gird a land 
Where Freedom's voice and step are found, 
Forget ye not the band — 
The faithful band, our sires, who fell 
Here in the narrow battle dell ! 

1 The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat o 
Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung 

2 Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are men 
tioned in Simond's Switzerland. 

8 The Kuhreihen — the celebrated Ranz des Faches 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



4(n 



If yet, the wilds among, 

Our silent hearts may burn, 
When the deep mountain horn hath rung, 
And home our steps may turn — 
Home ! — home ! — if still that name be dear. 
Praise to the men who perished here ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

Up to their shining snows 
That day the stormy rolling sound, 
The sound of battle, rose ! 
Their caves prolonged the trumpet's blast, 
Their dark pines trembled as it passed ! 

They saw the princely crest, 

Thej' saw the knightly spear. 
The banner, and the mail-clad breast. 
Borne down and trampled here ! 
They saw — and glorying there they stand, 
Eternal records to the land ! 

Praise to the mountain-born. 
The brethren of the glen ! 
By them no steel array was worn, 
They stood as peasant men ! 
They left the vineyard and the field. 
To break an empire's lance and shield. 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet, along their steeps, 
Our children's fearless feet may bound, 
Free as the chamois leaps ; 
Teach them in song to bless the band 
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 

If, by the wood fire's blaze, 

When winter stars gleam cold, 
The glorious tales of elder days 
May proudly yet be told. 
Forget not then the shepherd race, 
Who made the hearth a holy place ! 

Look on the white Alps round ! 

If yet the Sabbath bell 
Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound 
Think on the battle dell ! 
For blood first bathed its flowery sod. 
That chainless hearts might worship God ! 



THE MESSENGER BIED. 

[Some of the niitive Brazilians pay great veneration to a 
lertain bird tliat sings mournfully in the nighttime. They 
•»y it is a messenjjer which their deceased friends and rela- 
tions have sent, and that it brings them news from the other 
world. — See Pi cart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs ] 



Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirits' land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice b« 
heard, 

And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore ; 

And we know that the friends we have lost arts 
there. 
They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever'a 
thirst 

From the fountain of youth ere now,' 
For there must the stream in its freshness burst 

Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers, 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night fire's blaze. 

And bent with us the bow. 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call — and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet > 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief of those that were wont to shara 

His wandering through the wild i 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright. 
But say, do they love there stiU ? * 

t An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Pone* 
de Leon, in the sixteenth century, with a view of discover- 
ing a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puert* 
Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess th* 
virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters 
See Robertson's History of America. 

2 ANSWER TO "THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

BY AN AMEKICAN QUAKES I.AtlT. 

Yes ! I came from the spirits' land. 

From the land that is bright and fair ; 

I came with a voice from the shadowy band. 
To tell that they love you there. 



(08 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the 
llississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. 
The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends 
ana relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in 
constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly 
amongst these foreign travellers. — Pic art's Ceremonies and 
Religious Customs. 

" J'ai passe moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Sou- 
tenirs d'Amerique, " Chez une peiiplade Indienne qui se 
prenait 4 pleiirer k la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rap- 
pelait des amis partis pour la Contree des Ames, et depuia 
longtems en voyage."'\ 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
"We looked for the j'-outh of the sunny glance 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance ; 
The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee. 
But there came a voice from a distant shore — 
He was called — he is found 'midst his tribe no 

m.ore : 
He is not in his place when the night fires burn, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept. 
We looked for the maid of the mournful song — 
Mournful, though sweet, — she hath left us long : 
We told her the youth of her love was gone, 
And she went forth to seek him — she passed 

alone. 

To say, if a wish or a vain regret 

Could live in Elysian bowers, 
Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget. 

The beloved of their youthful hours. 

To whisper the dear deserted band, 

Who smiled on their tarriance here. 

That a faithful guard in the dreamless land 
Are the friends they have loved so dear. 

Tis true, in the silent night you call. 

And they answer you not again ; 
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all — 

iiJound only was made for pain. 

lliat their land is bright and they weep no more, 

I have warbled from hill to hill ; 
Hut my plaintive strain should have told before. 

That they love, O, they love you still. 

They bid me say that unfading flowers 

You'll find in the path they trod ; 
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers. 

Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827. 



We hear oot her voice when the woods are still, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head : 
He hath none bj his side when the wilds we 

track, 
He hath none when we rest — yet she cornea 

not 'rack ! 
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine, 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, stranger ' and wept. 
We looked for the chief, who hath left the spea* 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here : 
We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight 

sky ! — 
Where are they ? Thou'rt seeking some distant 

coast : 
O, ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step — but the step was 

thine ! 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS; 

AN INDIAN TRADITION. 

[" The River St. Mary has its source from a vast lake ol 
marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakinulge Rivers, and 
occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This 
vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a 
lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich, high 
land ; one of which the present generation of the Creek In- 
dians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They 
say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose wo- 
men are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that 
this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their en- 
terprising hunters, when in pursuit of game ; but that in 
their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in per- 
petual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they 
imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before 
them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They re- 
solved, at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to re- 
turn ; which, after a number of difficulties, they effected. 
When they reported their adventures to their countrymen 
the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire 
to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country 
but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, nevef 
having been able again to find that enchanting spot." — Bbk" 
tram's Travels through JVorth and South Carolina, &c. 

The additional circumstances In the " Isle of Founts • 
are merely imaginary.] 

Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take 
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way, 



LAYS OP MANY LANDS. 



401 



To reach the still and sliiaiing lake 

Along whose banks the west winds play ? 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 
O, seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent king,' 

'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, — 
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ; 
4.nd the bright Isle, when all is passed, 
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams, 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight, 
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, 
Floats on the wave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers, 

Which are not of the things that die, 
And singing voices from their bowers, 
Shall greet thee in the purple sky ; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth ? 
The wild and wondrous melodies 

To which the ancient rocks gave birth ? * 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves ! — they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thy launch thy light canoe. 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar, — 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed, 
The dreamy land should still recede ! 

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 
The music of its flowering shades, 

And ever should the sound be near 

Of founts that ripple through its glades 

1 The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their moun- 
tains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered 
%Fith old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs 
of rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the "bright old 
inhabitants." They represent them as snakes of an enor- 
mous size, and which possess the power of drawing to 
them every living creature that comes within the reach of 
their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a car- 
buncle of dazzling brightness. — See JVoto to Levden's 
Scenes of Infancy. 

a The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the 
8<uth American missionaries laxas de Musica, and alluded 
to n a fiirmer note 

52 



The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 
Of joyous waters in their play ! 

But woe for him who sees them burst 

With their bright spray showers to the lake ! 
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 
That semblance in his soul shall wake, 
Forever pouring through his dreams 
The gush of those untasted streams ! 

, Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, 
The waters of our deserts lie. 
Yet at their source his lip shall burn, 
Parched with the fever's agony ! 
From the blue mountains to the main, 
Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 

E'en thus our hunters came of yore 

Back from their long and weary quest ; — 
Had they not seen th' untrodden shore ? 
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest . 
The lightning of their glance was fled, 
They dwelt amongst us as the dead 1 

They lay beside our glittering rills 

With visions in their darkened eye ; 
Their joy was not amidst the hills 
Where elk and deer before us fly : 
Their spears upon the cedar hung, 
Their javelins to the wind were flung. 

They bent no more the forest bow, 

They armed not with the Avarrior band, 
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow— 
They left us for the spirits' land ! 
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 
Shows where the restless found their sleep. 

Son of the stranger ! if at eve 

Silence be 'midst us in thy place^ 
Yet go not where the mighty leave 
The strength of battle and of chase I 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 
O, seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 



THE BENDED BOW. 

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in B^^ 
ain by sending messengers in different directions througb 
the land, each bearing a bended bow ; and that peace was in 
like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefon 
straight. — See the Cambrian Jlntiquities.] 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended bow . 



tio 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



And a roice was poured on the free winds far, 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

"Heard you not the battle horn f — 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn : 
Leave it for the birds of heaven — 
Swords must flash and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red." 

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain chase. 
Take the falchion from its place ; 
Let the wdlf go free to-day. 
Leave him for a nobler prey ; 
Let the deer ungalled sweep by — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh." 

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast — 
Stay not till the song hath ceased : 
Though the mead be foaming bright, 
Though the fires give ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain anned,and the horn was blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice passed on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told 
In the bower and in the hold, 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung. 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 
Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 

And the prince came armed, like a leader's 

son ; 
And the bended jo-w and the voice passed on. 

"Mother ! stay thou not thy boy. 
He must learn the battle's joy : 
Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 
Give thy brother words of cheer : 
Maiden ! bid thy lover part ; 
Britain calls the strong in heart ! " 

^d the bended bow and the voice passed on ; 
^d the bards made song for a battle won. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death tt 
his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off (h« 
coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.] 

The bark that held a prince went down. 

The sweeping waves rolled on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son? 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death to those who mourn ? 

He never smiled again ! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave ; 
But which could fill the place of one, 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair, 
., In pleasure's reckless train ; 
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair — 

He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing, 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep — 

He never smiled again ! 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly poured, 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 

Were left to heaven's bright rain. 
Fresh hopes were bom for other years — 
He never smiled again I 



CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 
FATHER. 

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey- 
church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard 
Ccenr-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror 
and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebel- 
lious conduct which had been the means of bringing hif 
father to an untimely grave.] 

Torches were blazing clear. 
Hymns pealing deep and slow, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 41. 




Where a king lay stately on his bier 


He looked upon the dead — 


In the churoh of Fontevraud. 


And sorrow seemed to lie, 




Banners of battle o'er him hung, 


A weight of sorrow, e'en like lead, 




And warriors slept beneath ; 


Pale on the fast-shut eye. 




And light, as noon's broad light, was flung 


He stooped — and kissed the frozen cheek, 




On the settled face of death. 


And the heavy hand of clay ; 
Till bursting words — yet all too weak - 




On the settled face of death 


Gave his soul's passion way. 




A strong and ruddy glare. 






Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, 


" father ! is it vain. 




Yet it fell still brightest there ; 


This late remorse and deep ? 




As if each deeply-furrowed trace 


Speak to me, father ! once again • 




Of earthly years to show. 


I weep — behold, I weep ! 




Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 


Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! — 




Had surely closed in woe ! 


Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, my sire ! 




The marble floor was swept 


To hear thee bless thy son. 




By many a long dark stole, 






Ab the kneeling priests round him that slept 


" Speak to me ! Mighty grief 




Sang mass for the parted soul : 


Ere now the dust hath stirred ! 




A.nd solemn were the strains they poured 


. Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief; 




Through the stillness of the night, 


My king ! I mmt be heard ! 




With the cross above, and the crown and 


Hushed, hushed — hovsr is it that I call, 




sword. 


And that thou answer'st not ? 




And the silent king in sight. 


When was it thus ? Woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot ! 




There was heard a heavy clang, 






As of steel-girt men the tread, 


" Thy silver hairs I see. 




And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 


So still, so sadly bright! 




With a sounding thrill of dread ; 


And father, father ! but for me, 




And the holy chant was hushed a while, 


They had not been so white ! 




As, by the torch's flame. 


/ bore thee down, high heart ! at last : 




A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle 


No longer couldst thou strive. 




With a mail-clad leader came. 


for one moment of the past, 

To kneel and say — • Forgive ! ' 




, He came with haughty look, 






An eagle glance and clear ; 


" Thou wert the noblest king 




But his proud heart through its breastplate 


On royal throne e'er seen ; 




shook 


And thou didst wear in knightly ring, 




When he stood beside the bier ! 


Of all, the stateliest mien ; 




He stood there still with a drooping brow, 


And thou didst prove, where spears are prore^ 




And clasped hands o'er it raised ; 


In war, the bravest heart : 




For his father lay before him low — 


0, ever the renowned and loved 




It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed ! 


Thou wert — and there thou art ! 




And silently he strove 


" Thou that my boyhood's guide 




With the workings of his breast ; 


Didst take fond joy to be ! 




But there's more in late repentant love 


The times I've sported at thy side, 




Than steel may keep suppressed ! 


And climbed thy parent knee ! 




And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, — 


And there before the blessed shrine, 




Men held their breath in awe ; 


My sire ! I see thee lie, — 




For his face was seen by his warrior train, 


How will that sad still face of thine 




Ar.d he recked not that they saw. 


Look on me till I die ! " 





THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 
FALLEN TREE. 

[" Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly 
strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many 
Fersons and commonly believed. Before any heir of this 
family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies 
of trees swimming on the water for several days." — Cam- 
oen's Britannia,} 

Yes ! I have seen the ancient oak 

On the dark deep water cast, 
And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke, 
Or the rush of the sweeping blast ; 
For the axe might never touch that tree, 
And the air was still as a summer sea. 

I saw it fall, as falls a chief 
By an arrow in the fight, 
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, 
At the crashing of its might ; 
And the startled deer to their coverts drew. 
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 

'Tis fallen ! But think thou not I weep 

For the forest's pride o'erthrown — 
An old man's tears lie far too deep 
To be poured for this alone : 
But by that sign too well I know 
That a youthful head must soon be low ! 

A youthful head, with its shining hair. 

And its bright quick-flashing eye ; 
Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair, 
Too fair a thing to die ! 
But on his brow the mark is set — 
O, could my life redeem him yet ! 

He bounded by me as I gazed 

Alone on the fatal sign. 
And it seemed like sunshine when he raised 
His joyous glance to mine. 
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by. 
So full of life — but he must die ! 

He must, he must ! in that deep dell, 

By that dark water's side, 
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell • 
But an heir of his fathers died. 
And he — there's laughter in his eye, 
Toy in his voice — yet he must die ! 

I've borne him in these arms, that now 

Are nerveless and unstrung ; 
And must I see, on that fair brow, 

The dust untimely flung ? 



I must ' — yon green oak, branch and crest, 
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 

The noble boy ! — how proudly sprung 

The falcon from his hand ! 
It seemed like youth to see him young, 
A flower in his father's land ! 
But the hour of the knell and the dirge ii 

nigh, 
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 

Say not 'tis vain ! I tell thee, some 

Are warned by a meteor's light, 
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home, 
Or a voice on the winds by night ; 
And they must go ! And he too, he ! 
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree ! 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 

[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing 
of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He 
is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle 
of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle 
of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound 
of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke 
of Baden before the commencement of the last war in 
Germany.] 

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour. 

If thou didst not hear the blast 
Of the savage horn from the mountain tower, 

As the Wild Night Huntsman passed, 
And the roar of the stormy chase went by 
Through the dark unquiet sky ! * 

The stag sprang up from his mossy bed 
When he caught the piercing sounds, 

A.nd the oak boughs crashed to his antlered 
head. 
As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 

And the falcon soared from her craggy height. 

Away through the rushing night ! 

The banner shook on its ancient hold. 

And the pine in its desert place, 
As the cloud and tempest onward rolled 

With the din of the trampling race ; 
And the glens were fiUed with the laugh and 

shout. 
And the bugle, ringing out ! 

From the ch'efti»in's hand the wine cup fell, 
At the castlb's te.«tive board, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 415 

1 


And a sadden pause came o'er the swell 




Of the harp's triumphal chord ; 


THE SHADE OF THESEUS. 


And the Minnesinger's ' thriUing lay 




In the hall died fast away. 


AN ANCIENT GREEK TBADITION. 


■ 


Know ye not when our dead 


The convent's chanted rite was stayed, 


From sleep to battle sprung ? — 


And the hermit dropped his beads, 


When the Persian charger's tread 


And a trembling ran through the forest shade, 


On their covering greensward rung ; 


At the neigh of the phantom steeds, 


When the trampling march of foes 


And the church bells pealed to the rocking 


Had crushed our vines and flowers, 


blast 


When jewelled crests arose 


As the "Wild Night Huntsman passed. 


Through the holy laurel bowers ; 




When banners caught the breeze, 


The storm hath swept with the chase away. 


When helms in sunlight shone, 


There is stillness in the sky ; 


When masts were on the seas, 


But the mother looks on her son to-day 


And spears on Marathon. 


With a troubled heart and eye. 




And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 


There was one, a leader crowned, 


'Midst the gleam of her golden hair ! 


And armed for Greece that day ; 




But the falchions made no sound 


The Rhine flows bright ; but its waves ere long 


On his gleaming war array. 


Must hear a voice of war, 


In the battle's front he stood, 


And a clash of spears our hills among. 


With his tall and shadowy crest ; 


And a trumpet from afar ; 


But the arrows drew no blood. 


And the brave on a bloody turf must lie — 


Though their path was through his breast 


For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 


When banners caught the breeze. 




When helms in sunlight shone, 


,_-. 


When masts were on the seas. 




And spears on Marathon. 


BRANDENBURG HARVEST SONG.'^ 






His sword was seen to flash 


VBOU TEE OEKMAir OF LA MOTIE FOlTQirB. 


Where the boldest deeds were done , 


The corn in golden light 


But it smote without a clash — 


Waves o'er the plain ; 


The stroke was heard by none ! 


The sickle's gleam is bright ; 


His voice was not of those 


Full swells the grain. 


That swelled the rolling blast. 




And. his steps fell hushed like snows — 


Now send we far around 


'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed ! 


Our harvest lay ! 


When banners caught the breeze, 


Alas ! a heavier sound 


When helms in sunlight shone, 


Comes o'er the day ! 


When masts were on the seas, 




And spears on Marathon. 


Earth shrouds with burial sod 




Her soft eyes blue, — 


Far sweeping through the foe, 


Now o'er the gifts of God 


With a fiery charge he bore ; 


Fall tears like dew. 


And the Mede left many a bow 




On the sounding ocean shore. 


On every breeze a knell 


And the foaming waves grew red. 


The hamlets pour : 


And the sails were crowded fast, 


We know its cause too well — 


When the sons of Asia fled, 


She is no more J 


As the Shade of Theseus passed ! 




When banners caught the breeze^ 




When helms in sunlight shonw 


' Minnesinger, love singer — the wandering minstrels of 




Sennany were so called in the middle ages. 


When masts were on the seas. 


3 >'or the year of the (iueen of Prussia's death. 


And spears on ilarathon. 



(14 



LAYS OP MANY LANDS. 



ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. 

Where is the summer with her golden sun ? — 
That festal glory hath not passed from 
earth : 

For me alone the laughing day is done ! 

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the Fauns, whose flute notes breathe 
and die 
On the green hills ? — the founts, from sparry 
caves 
Through the wUd places bearing melody ? — 
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river 
waves ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the temples, through the dim wood 
shining. 
The virgin dances, and the choral strains ? 
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, en- 
twining 
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous 
throngs. 
The red grapes pressing when the foliage 
fades ? 
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian 
songs, 
And the pine forests, and the olive shades ? 

— Far in my own bright land ! 

Where the deep-haunted grots, the laurel bow- 
ers. 
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 
dreams ? — 
O that my life were as a southern flower's ! — 
I might not languish then by these chill 
streams. 
Far from my own bright land ! 



GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR 
MYRIOLOGUE. 

["Les Chants Fun^bres par lesquels on deplore en Gr^ce 
La mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myri- 
ologia — comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, coin- 
plaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa 
femme, sa mere, ses filles, ses sffiurs, celles, en un mot, de 
ses plus proches parentes qui sont \k, lui ferment les yeux et 
a bouche, en ^nanchant lihrement, chacune selon son naturel 



et sa mesure de tendresse pour le d^funt, la -V^'v—r r** IH 
ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retl« 
rent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs aime& 
Li elles changent de vetemens, s'habillent de ulanc, cumme 
pour la ceremonie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'ellea 
gardent la tete nue, les clieveux epars et pendants. Ces ap. 
prets termines, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de 
deuil ; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur 
douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et comme la premiere foia, 
sans regie et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontaneet 
succfedent bientot des lamentations d'une autre espece : c» 
sont les Mijriologu.es. Ordinairement c'est la plus proch« 
parente qui prononce le sien la premifere ; apr6s elle les au- 
tres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myrio- 
logues sont toujours composes et cliantes par les femmes. 
lis sont toujours improvises, toujours en vers, et toujours 
chantes sur un air qui difTfere d'un lieu 4 un autre, mais qui, 
dans un lieu donne, reste invariablement consacre i ce genre 
de poesie." — Chants Populaires de la Chr&ce Modeme, par 

C. FAURIEL.J 

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death 

bed of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung : — 
" lanthis ! dost thou sleep ? Thou sleep'st — 

but this is not the rest. 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pil- 
lowed on my breast : 
I lulled thee not to this repose, lanthis ! my 

sweet son ! 
As, in thy glowing childhood's time, by twilight 

I have done. 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon 

thee now ? 
And that I die not, seekuig death on thy pale 

glorious brow ? 

" I look upon thee, thou that wort of all most 

fair and grave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for 

the grave. 
Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heav- 
ily thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon glance that in it loved 

to lie ; 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed 

on breezes borne, 
When to thy couch I came and said, — ' Wake, 

hunter, wake ! 'tis morn ! ' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouched 

by slow decay, — 
And I, the withered stem, remain. I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" O, ever, when I met thy look, I knew that thu 

would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a 

gift for thee ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



4« 



I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bear- 
ing high ; — 

A voice came whispering to my soul, and told 
me thou must die ! 

Tkat thou must die, my fearless one ! where 
swords were flashing red, — 

Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born 
and my dead ! 

They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 
victory won : 

Speak thou, and I will hear, my child ! lanthis ! 
my sweet son ! " 

A •wail was heard around the bed, the death bed 

of the young — 
A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst 

her weeping sung : — 
" lanthis ! look'st thou not on me ? Can love 

indeed be fled ? 
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately 

head? 
I would that I had followed thee, lanthis, my 

beloved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faith- 
ful hearts are proved ; 
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled 

at thy side ! — 
It would have been a blessed thing together had 

we died ! 

" But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ? 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the 

peaceful board ? 
Hr singing some sweet song of old, in the shad- 
ow of the vine. 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the 

holy shrine ? 
And thou wert lying low the while, the lifedrops 

fi-om thy heart 
Fast gushing, like a mountain spring ! And 

coiildst thou thus depart ? 
Oouldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out 

thy fleeting breath ? — 
0, I was with thee but in joy, that should have 

been in death ! 

" Yes ! I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led. 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and 

when the feast was spread ; 
But not where noble blood flowed forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and no!, 

its last adieu ? 



What now can breathe of gladness more, — what 
scene, what hour, what tone ? 

The blue skies fade with all their lights ; they 
fade, since thou art gone ! 

Even that must leave me, that still face, by aU 
my tears unmoved : 

Take me from this dark world with thee, lan- 
this ! my beloved ! " 

A wail was heard around the bed, the death bed 

of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung : — 
'•lanthis ! brother of my soul! — O, where are 

now the days 
That laughed among the deep- green hills, on all 

our infant plays ? 
When we two sported by the streams, or tracked 

them to their source, 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, 

fearless coiirse ! — 
I see the pines th%re waving yet, I see the rills 

descend. 
But see thy bounding step no more — my brotn- 

er and my friend ! 

" I come with flowers, for spring is come ! hJ> 

this ! art thou here f 
I bring the garlands she hath brought — I cast 

them on thy bier. 
Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crowr 

— but O, more meet they seem, 
The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies ot 

the stream — 
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 

early low. 
Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow! 
The golden glow that through thy heart wa» 

wont such joy to send : 
Woe that it smiles, and not for thee ! — my 

brother and my friend ! " 



GREEK PARTING SONG. 

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in hi( 
" Chansons Populaires de la Gr6ce Modenie," and accom- 
panied by some very interesting particulars ^e^jpecting th« 
extempore parting songs, or songs ot" expatriation, as he in- 
forms us tliey are called, in which the modern Greeks ara 
accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding ftrewe. 
to their country and friends.] 

A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images. 



il6 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



The longest treasured, and most oft recalled, 
And brightest kept, of love — a mountain home, 
That, -with the murmur of its rocking pines, 
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 
A.nd half unconscious prayer — a Grecian home. 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung. 
And, through the dimness of its olive shades, 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 
And this was what he left ! Yet many leave 
Far more — the glistening eye, that first from 

theirs 
Jailed out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle 

hand, 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant 

steps 
To vphere the violets lay ; the tender voice 
That earliest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in affection's tones. He left not these. 
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love ! A bitterer grief 
Was his — to part unloved ! — of her unloved 
That should have breathed upon his heart like 

spring. 
Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friends. 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot ; and she too went. 
That mother, tearles?, for her youngest born. 
The parting spot was reached — a lone deep 

glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore ; for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes ; and above. 
The silence of the blue still upper heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they 

wore 
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back ; but then a 

light 
Broke on the stern, proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A burst of passionate song. 

"Farewell, farewell! 
I hoar thee, O thou rushing stream! — thou'rt 

from my native deU, 
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a 

murmur of farewell ! 
And fare thee well — flow on, my stream ! — flow 

on, thou bright and free ! 
[ do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 

for me ; 



But I have been a thing unloved from child 

hood's loving years. 

And therefore turns my soiil to thee, for thoij 
hast known my tears ! 

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my se- 
cret tears have known ; 

The woods can tell where he hath wept that ever 
wept alone ! 

"I see thee once again, my home! thou'rt therg 

amidst thy vines, 
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of 

summer shines. 
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering 

through thy groves — 
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour 

the mother loves. 
The hour the mother loves ! — for me beloved it 

hath not been ; 
Yet ever in its purple smile thou smilest, a 

blessed scene ! 
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through dis- 
tant years will come — 
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be 

then, my home ! 

" Not as the dead — no, not the dead ! We sjieak 
of them — we keep 

Their names, like light that must not fade, with- 
in our bosoms deep ; 

We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love 
the lay they sung, 

We pass with softer step the place they filled oui 
band among. 

But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught 
that leaves on earth 

No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its 
birth ! 

I go ! — the echo of the rock a thousand songs 
may swell. 

When naine is a forgotten voice. Woods, moun- 
tains, home, farewell ! 

" And farewell, mother ! I have borne in lon^lj 
silence long, 

But now the current of my soul grows passion- 
ate and strong ; 

And I w^ill speak ! though but the wind that 
wanders through the sky. 

And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and roll- 
ing streams reply. 

Yes, I will speak I Within my breast, whate'ei 
hath seemed to be, 

There lay a hidden fount of lovp that -vyjuld 
have gushed for thee ! 



L, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



417 



Brightly it would have gushed — but thou, my 

mother ! thou hast thrown 
Back on the forests and the wilds what should 

have been thine own ! 

"Then fare thee weU ! I leave thee not 1a lone- 
liness to pine, 
Since thou hast sons of statelier ruien and fairer 

brow than mine. 
Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may 

be that a tone 
Yet from my burning Iieart may pierce through 

thine, when I am gone ; 
And thou, perchance, mp;,st weep for him on 

whom thou ne'er hast smiled. 
And the grave give his birthright back to thy 

neglected child ! 
Might but my spirit then returr,, and 'midst its 

kindred dwell. 
And quencl:- its thirft with love's free tears ! 'Tis 

all t, dream : farewell ! " 

" Fareweii ! " — the echo died with that deep 

word ; 
Yet dieil not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quickened in the mother's breast ! 
There had passed many changes o'er her 

brow, 
And cheek, and eye ; but mto one bright 

flood 
Oi tsars at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 
"Keturn, return, my son ! " The echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring, " Return, my son ! " 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 

[It is related, in a Frencli life of Ali Pacha, that several 
of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops 
into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, 
ind, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, 
»rith their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becom- 
SSf the slaves of the enemy.] 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 
Amidst the clear blue sky ; 

A bitter smile was on her cheek, 
And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy ? — through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armor shines ? 



Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror" a 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! 
Wouldst thou spring from thv mother's arms 

with joy? 
— That sight hath cost thee a father, boy ! *' 

For in the rocky strait beneath. 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heaped high the piles cf death 

Before the pass was won. 

"They have crossed the torrent, and on they 

come • 
Woe for the mountam hearth and home ! 
There, where the hunter laid by his spear, 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to 

hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, 
Nought but the blood stain our trace shall 

keep ! " 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 
And now the cymbal's clang, 

Till e'en the upper air was stirred. 
As cliff and hollow rang. 

'• Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ? 
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, . 
As if at a glance of thine armed sire ? 
Still ! — be thou still ! — there are brave men 

low : 
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him 

now ! " 

But nearer came the clash of steel. 
And louder swelled the horn. 

And farther yet the tambour's peal 
Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear'st thou the sound of their savage 

mirth ? 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birthj — 
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchained must his loved cnei 

be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me ! '" 

And from the arrowy peak she sprunjju 
And fast the fair child bore : — 

A veil upon the wind was flung, 
A cry — and all was o'er ! 



63 



<1S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the 
Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are 
invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) 
and to bid their final adieu. — See Christian Researches in 
the Medite.rraneanJ] 

" 'Tis hard to lay into the earth 
A countenance so benign I a form that walked 
But yesterday eo stately o'er the earth I " "WiLSOsr. 

Come near ! Ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near ! — ^ once more let kindred lips be 

pressed 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart im- 
pressed. 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ' Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the 

blessed. 
Ntw gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. 



Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — 
But not where death has power may love b« 

blessed. 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The spring's rich promise has been given in 
vain — 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early called i:o rest ! 

Look on him ! Is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that must fade : 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives y»ur vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirits' hght is quenched ! For him the 

past 
Is sealed : he may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away! 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed. 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS ! 

I GO, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; 

For we have wandered far and free 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go ; but when you pause to hear. 
From distant hills, the Sabbath bell 

On summer winds float silvery clear, 
Think on me then — I loved it well ! 



Forget me not around your hearth. 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze ; 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends, in other days. 

And O, when music's voice is heard 
To melt in strains of parting woe, 

When hearts to love and grief ar 
stirred 
Think of me then ! — I go, I go ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



41S 



ANGEL VISITS. 

" No cor* Of talk where God or angel gue^ 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To Bit indulgent, and witli him partake 
Rural' repasf." Mi.-roK. 

AitE ye forever to your skies departed ? 

O, will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of 
yore ! 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not. 

ITet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wandered from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From 3'ou, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 

Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

fhat saw your hosts ascending and descending 

On those bright steps between the earth and 

sky: 

Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, 

And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful 

place. 

By Chebar's ' brook ye passed, such radiance 
wearing 
As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing. 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ; 
And the dread rushing of your wings that 

hour 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, 
'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was 
done. 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering. 
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son ? 

— Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains. 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly 
dwelling. 
Ye left, and by th' unsealed sepulchral stone, 
In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling. 
That He they sought had triumphed, and was 
gone. 

1 Ezekiel, chap, x 



Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 
With gentle promptings and sweet influenct 

yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 
When, 'midst the palm trees, man your foot 
steps met ? 
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise higb| 
When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 
Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave 

When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams ! But a deeper thought our souls mat 
fiU: 

One, One is near — a spirit holier still ' 



IVY SONG. 

WKITTEN ON EECEIVINO SOME ITY LEAVES OATHEHED VBOk 
THE KUIKED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE BHIKE. 

O, HOW could Fancy crown with thee 

In ancient days the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the vine ? 
Thy home, wild plant ! is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
Where song's full notes once pealed around 

But now are heard no more. 

The Roman on his battle plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Intwined thee with exulting strains 

Around the victor's tent : 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lov'st the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave. 

Where sleep the sons of ages flown. 

The bards and heroes of the past ; 
Where, through the halls of glory gone, 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface ' 

Each record of the grand and fair ; 
Thou, in thy solitary grace. 

Wreath of the tomb ! art there. 

O, many a temple, once sublime. 
Beneath a blue Italian sky, 



(120 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Hath nought of beauty left by time, 

Save thy wild tapestry ! 
And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 

To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhinos 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vanished race — 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 

Hath passed, and left no trace. 
But there thou art ! — thy foliage bright 

Unchanged the mountain storm can brave ; 
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or deck the humblest grave ! 

'Tis still the same ! Where'er we tread. 

The wrecks of human power we see — 
The marvels of all ages fled 

Left to decay and thee ! 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, grace, and strength ; 
Days pass — thou ivy never sere ! — ' 

And all is thine at length ! 



rO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Where sucks the bee now ? Summer is fljing. 
Leaves r'^und the elm tree faded are lying ; 
Violets are gone from their grassy dell, 
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell ; 
The rose from the garden hath passed away — 
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day ! 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath 

smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child ! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed. 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head., 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay — 
Happy and bright is thy natal day ! 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play 
With bounding heart, my boy ! 

Before thee lies a »ong bright day 
Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 
To cloud thy fearless eye : 

t " Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere." — Ltcidas. 



Long be it thus ! — life's early stream 
Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings, 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought spring*. 

So, in the onward vale of tears, 

Where'er thy path may be. 
When strength hath bowed to evil years. 

He will remember thee ! 



CHRIST STILLINQ THE TEMPEST. 

Fear was within the tossing bark 
When stormy winds grew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And bafiled in their skill ; 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea — Be still ! 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! that word 
Passed through the gloomy sky : 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They s'ank, as flowers that fold to sleep, 

When sultry day is past. 

O Thou ! that in its wildest hour 
Didst rule the tempest's mood. 

Send thy meek spirit forth in power, 
Soft on our souls to brood ! 

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil ! 
O, speak to passion's raging tide. 

Speak, and say, " Peace, be still ! " 



EPITAPH 

OTBB THB OBAVB OF TWO BROTHKES, A CHILD A3fD 
A YOUTH. 

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs. Hemans was forta- 
nate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom 
she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose 
unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to herchil* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



42> 



inn, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, 
(though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) 
will forgive its being introduced into these pages. 

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,i the mother 
of those " two brothers, a child and a youth," for whose 
monument Mrs. Henians had written an inscription, which, 
with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the 
heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing 
parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too, 
" Speaks the grave, 
Where God hath sealed the fount of hope He gave." 

Into.the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own 
Borrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoy- 
ments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken 
with a warmth and loving kindness which extended its 
genial influence to all belonging to her ; and during their 
stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, 
Mrs. Hemans and her children were cherished with a true 
home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderbum. — 
Memoir, p. 192.] 

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee, 

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy, 
Come to this tomb ! — it hath a voice for thee ' 

Pray ! Thou art blest — ask strength for sorrow's 
hour: 

Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth 

Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold 
All the heart's depths before thee bright with 
truth, 
All the mind's treasures silently unfold, 
Look on this tomb ! — for thee, too, speaks the 

grave, 
Where God hath sealed the fount of hope He 
gave. 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. 

Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 
That which hath left our home a darkened 
place, 
Wanting the form, the smile, now veiled with 
dust. 
The light departed with our loveliest face. 
Ye*; from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is free - 
We have but lent the beautiful to thee. 

Hut thou, O Heaven ! keep, keep what thou hast 
taken, 
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ; 

1 The lady of Sir David Wedderbum, Bart, and sister of the 
late Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the linet 
Ue inscribed is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden's seat. 
This excellent Kiy only survived Mrs. Hemans a few years. 



The spirit meek, and yet by pain xmshaken, 
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy — 
Guide us where these are with our sister flown 
They were of Thee, and thou hast claimed thin( 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea ! 

Forever and the same ; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 

Those thunders nought can tame. 

O, many a glorious voice is gone 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute, that sighed of yor» 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pourecl 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn that rang 
O'er stream and mountain free ; 

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 
Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 

Through many an olden cHme, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky. 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound. 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

Even as first it rolled. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thou speak' st of One who doth not change — 

So may our hearts repose. 



A22 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

■VOOKSTED BT CHANXEEY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA 
KUSSELL. 

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, 
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back. 
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track. 

rhou art a thing to recall the hours 

When the love of our souls was on leaves and 

flowers. 
When a world was our own in some dim sweet 

grove, 
And treasure untold In one captive dove. 

Are they gone ? can we think it, while thou art 

there, 
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair ? 
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on 

thee? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimmed as thine — 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face. 
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace. 
To have lingered before thee, and turned, and 

borne 
One vision away of the cloudless morn. 



A DIRGE. 

[The first two stanzas of this dirge may be found in the 
last scene of " The Siege of Valencia ; " but they are more 
particularly worthy of the reader's consideration, as having 
Been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the 
vault beneath St. Ann's Church, Dublin, where the remains 
nf the author repose.] 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 

Even while with us thy footstep trod. 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house benoath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 



But O, — a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 

" O, fondly, fervently, those two had loved, 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust ; 
Had watched bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful yean ; 
And thus they met 1 " 

" Haste, with your torches, haste ! make fire* 

light round ! " — 
They speed, they press : what hath the miael 

found ? 
Relic or treasure — giant sword of old ? 
Gems bedded deep — rich veins of burning gold \ 

— Not so ! — the dead, the dead ! An awe- 

struck band 
In silence gathering round the silent stand, 
Chained by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, 
Before the thing that, in the might of death, 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay — 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! — a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair !) 
O'er his cold brow : no shadow of decay 
Had touched those pale, bright features — yet 

he wore 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery? From the 

throng 
A woman wildly broke ; her eye was dim. 
As if through many tears, through vigils long. 
Through weary strainings: — all had been for 

him ! 
Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the 

dead. 
In his youth's flower — and she, the living, stood. 
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had 

fled — 
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing 

blood 
Had long since ebbed — a meeting sad and 

strange ! 

— O, are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft .' She stood there still, 
And mute, and gazing — all her soul to fill 
With the loved face once more — the young, 

fair face, 
'Midst that rude cavern, touched with sculp- 
ture's grace. 
By torchlight and by death : until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gushed in low broken tones : — " And therf 

thou art ! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



423 



As for a few brief hours ! My friend, my friend ! 
First love, and only one ! Is this the end 
Of hope deferred, youth blighted ! Yet thy brow- 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek 
Smiles — how unchanged ! — while I, the worn, 

and weak, 
And faded — O, thou wouldst but scorn me now, 
If thou couldst look on me ! — a withered leaf. 
Seared — though for thy sake — by the blast of 

grief ! 
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go 
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I called thee ! With the morning light 
How have I watched for thee ! — wept, wan- 
dered, prayed. 
Met the fierce mountain tempest, undismayed, 
In search of thee ! — bound my worn life to one — 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! 'Tis gone. 
Take thy betrothed ! " And on his breast she fell, 
O, since their youth's last passionate farewell, 
How changed in all but love ! — the true, the 

strong. 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 
They had one grave — one lonely bridal bed, 
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed ! 
Eis name had ceased — her heart outlived each 

tie, 
Once more to look on that dead face, and die ! 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF 
MEMORY. 

TO THE AIR OP "AM KHEIN, AM KHEINl" 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, 

^■ur brethren of the sword ! 

Oft at the fpust, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own ; 
Fil high tho cup ! but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone. 

Thej that stood with us, 'midst the dead and 
dying. 

On Albuera's plain ; 
Thsj that beside us cheerily tracked the flying. 

Far o'er the hills of Spain ; 

rhey that amidst us, when the shells were 
showering 
From old Rodrlgo's wall, 



The rampart scaled, through clouds of battla 

towering, 
First, first at Victory's call ; 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving. 

In Roncesvalles' dell, 
With England's blood the southern vineyards 
laving — 

Forget not how they fell ! 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be poured ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



HAUNTED GROUND. 

" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart tlie weight wliich it would fling 
Aside forever — it may be a sound, 
A tone of muSic, summer eve, or spring, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 

Striliing th' electric train, wherewith we're darkly bound." 

Btko'C 

Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 
Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 
Yet fear not thou — for the spell is thrown. 
And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
O, in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours ! 

Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells, 
And loved, and sorrowed, and heard farewells 
And learned in my own deep soul to look. 
And tremble before that mysterious book ? 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves, 
Woven such dreams as the j'oung heart weaves 
Shadows — yet unto which life seemed bound ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Must I not hear what thou hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ? 
Is there not something to rouse but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought ; 
Love, with its passionate visions fraught ; 
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round ; 
And is it not — is it not haimted ground i 

Are there no phantoms, but such as come 
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb 



A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, 
Can summon up mightier far than these ! 

But I may not linger amidst them here ! 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear ; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! — that my soul may soar 
As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 
Here from its wing it may never cast 
The chain by those spirits brought back from 
the past. 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou, too, 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew — 
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother's knee. 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed. 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made. 
Thou hast seen the colors of glory fade. 

O, painfully then, by the wind's low sigh. 

By the voice of the stream, by the flower cup's 

dye, 
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, 
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted 

ground. 

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS. 

■WElTXElf AFTER BEADINO THE MEMOIRS OF 
JOHN HUNTEE. 

[On one occasion, Mrs. Hemans was somewhat ludi- 
crously disenchanted, through the medium of a JVortA 
American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, 
whose history (which suggested her little poem, " The Child 
of the Forests ") she had read with unquestioning faith and 
lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hun- 
ter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians — 
by whom he represented himself to have been carried away 
in childhood — were worked up into a plausible narrative, 
admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. 
But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged 
oy the following extract from a letter to a friend who had 
been similarly mystified : — " I send you a J^orth American 
Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelli- 
gence that John Hunter — even our own John Dunn — the 
man of the panther's skin — the adopted of the Kansas — 
the shooter with the rifle — no, with the long bow — is, I 
blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor ; no 
better than Psalmanazar ; no, no better than Carraboo her- 
lelf. After this, what are we to believe again .■' Are there 
any Loo Choo Islands .'' Was there ever any Robinson 
Crusoe ? Is there any Rammohun Roy .' All one's faith 
and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sym- 
pathizes with me properly on this annoying occasion ; but 



you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quiU 
as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself"- 

Memoir, pp. 95, 96.] 

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, 

And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, 
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust .' 

Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, 

To pour itself upon the wUds again ? 

They are gone f Jrth, the desert's warrior 
race. 
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe ; 
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, 

With thy free footstep and unfailing bow ? 
Their singing shafts have reached the panther's 

lair. 
And where art thou ? — thine arrows are not 
there. 

They rest beside their streams — the spoil ia 
won — 
They hang their spears upon the cypress 
bough ; 
The night fires blaze, the hunter's work is done — 
They hear the tales of old — but where ar^ 
thou? 
The night fires blaze beneath the giant pine. 
And there a place is filled that once was thine. 

For thou art mingling with the city's throng. 
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside ; 

Child of the forests ! thou art borne along. 
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. 

But will this be ? and canst thou here find 
rest ? 

Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast. 

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear 
From the savanna land, the land of streams ? 

Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may 
hear ? 
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams ? 

They call — wild voices call thee o'er the main, 

Back to thy free and boundless woods again. 

Hear them not ! hear them not ! — thou canst 

not find 

In the far wilderness what once was thine ! 

Thou hast quaffed knowledge from the foimti 

of mind. 

And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine. 

Thou know'st the soaring thought, th' immor* 

tal strain — 
Seek not the deserts and the woods again I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



421 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * *. 

In the full tide of melody and mirth, 

"While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, 

Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from 
earth, 
Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. 

Forget him not, for many a festal hour, 

Charmed by those strains, for us has lightly 
flown : 
And memory's visions, mingling with their 
power, 
Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. 

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays 
Revive life's morning dreams, when youth is 
fled, 

And, fraught with images of other days, 
"Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. 

tiis the dear art whose spells a while renew 
Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom — 

0, what were life, unless such moments threw 
Bright gleams, " like angel visits," o'er its 
gloom ? 



THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS. 

Yes ! thou hast met the sun's last smile 
From the haunted hiUs of Rome ; 

By many a bright ^gean isle 
Thou hast seen the billows foam. 

From the silence of the Pyramid, 
Thou hast watched the solemn flow 

Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 
The ancient realm below. 

Thy heart hath burned, as shepherds sung 

Some wild and warlike strain. 
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 

Through the pealing hills of Spain. 

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 
Thou hast heard the laurels moan. 

With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams 
Of the glory that is gone. 

But go thou to the pastoral vales 

Of the Alpine mountains old. 
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 

By the wind's deep whispers told ! 
54 



Go, if thou lov'st the soil to tread 
"WThere man hath nobly striven, 

And life, like incense, hath been shed, 
An offering unto Heaven. 

For o'er the snows, and round the pinca, 

Hath swept a noble flood ; 
The nurture of the peasant's -,-ineB 

Hath been the martyr's blood ! 

A spirit, stronger than the sword, 

And loftier than despair. 
Through all th' heroic region poured, 

Breathes in the generous air. 

A memory clings to every steep 

Of long-enduring faith. 
And the sounding streams glad record keep 

Of courage unto death. 

Ask of the peasant tohere his sires 

For truth and freedom bled ; 
Ask where were lit the torturing fires, 

Where lay the holy dead ; 

And he wiU tell thee, all around. 

On fount, and turf, and stone. 
Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 

Their ashes have been sown ! 

Go, when the Sabbath bell is heard • 

IJp through the wilds to float, 
When the dark old woods and caves are stirred 

To gladness by the note ; 

When forth, along their thousand rills, 

The mountain people come. 
Join thou their worship on those hills 

Of glorious martyrdom. 

And while the song of praise ascends. 

And while the torrent's voice, 
Like the swell of many an organ, blends, 

Then let thy soul rejoice. 

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn. 
Through shame, through death, made strong, 

1 See GtLLT's Researches among the Mountains of ' Pied' 
mont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath day among the 
upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of theM 
Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with theil 
flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the sum- 
mer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season 
of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the 
open ?'r. 



i2S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Before the rocks and heavens have borne 
Witness of God so long ! 



SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER. 

Pilgrim ! O, say, hath thy cheek been fanned 
By the sweet winds of my sunny land ? 
Krow'st thou the sound of its mountain pines ? 
And hast thou rested beneath its vines ? 

Hast thou heard the music stiU wandering by, 
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, 
Floating away o'er hill and heath. 
With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath ? 

Then say, are there fairer vales than those 
Where the warbling of fountains forever flows ? 
Axe there brighter flowers than mine own, which 

wave 
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave ? 

O, sunshine and song ! they are lying far, 
By the streams that look to the western star ; 
My heart is fainting to hear once more 
The water voices of that sweet shore. 

Many were they that have died for thee, 

And brave, my Spain ! though thou art not free ; 

But I call them blest; they have rent their 

chain; 
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain ! 



THE CONTADINA. 

■WBJTTEN rOR A PICTUBK. 

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine. 
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's 

shrine ; 
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers 
Joy on thy spirit, like hght on the flowers ; 
And not for the scent of the citron trees — 
Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, 
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it 

throw ; 
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine 

eye, 
lake a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky. 
Though the south in its riches nought lovelier 

sees — 
I'air peasant ! I call thee not bUst for these. 



But for those breathing and loving things — 
For the boy's fond arm that around thee clings 
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, 
In the peace of a trusting child's repose — 
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast* 
O, richly, I call thee, and deeply blest ! 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

The warrior crossed the ocean's foam 

For the stormy fields of war ; 
The maid was left in a smiling home 

And a sunny land afar. 

His voice was heard where javelin showers 

Poured on the steel-clad line ; 
Her step was 'midst the summer flowers. 

Her seat beneath the vine. 

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 
And the red blood stained his crest ; 

While she — the gentlest wind of heaveu 
Might scarcely fan her breast ! 

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, 
And again he crossed the seas : 

But she had died, as roses die 
That perish with a breeze — 

As roses die, when the blast is come 

For all things bright and fair : 
There was death within the smUing home - 

How had death found her there ? 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.» 

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells. 
Thou hoUow-sounding and mysterious main ? 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored 
shells. 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and 
in vain. 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! What wealth 
untold. 
Far down, and shining through their stillness 
lies ! 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies. 

1 Originally introduced in the " Forest Sanctaaiy." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



427 



Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 
main ! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves 
have rolled 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Seaweed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ; 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more ! 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy 
breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 

The battle thunders will not break their rest. 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so 
long, 
ITie prayer went up through midnight's breath- 
less gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song. 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble 
head. 
O'er youth'^ bright locks, and beauty's flowery 
crown : 
Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the 
dead! 
Earth shaU reclaim her precious things from 
thee ! — 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

[" The only public mention that I have made of Mrs. 
Hemans," says Mr. Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter re- 
garding her, with which we have been favored by that 
ixcellent man and distinguished poet, " was in a series of 
fectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Roy- 
\\ Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of 
these, having to notice very briefly the 'Female Poets,' I 
(aid, ' Mrs. Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out 
11 new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and 
the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best 
pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that 
iprightly , yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.' I gave 
'The Treasures of the Deep' as an example; and, indeed, 
I know nothing in our language — of the kind and the char- 
acter I mean — comparable with it, either in conception or 
execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and 
commanding address : — The Ocean summoned to give an 
account of all that it has been doing through six thousand 
rears, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the 



secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which po& 
try alone, of the purest order, can discover tiiem. The lart 
stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect wliole." 

We beg to remind the author of " Tlie World before th« 
Flood," and " The Pelican Island," that the lectures to 
which he alludes have never been publislied. They wera 
flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal In- 
stitution, and before the literary societies of several of tho 
principal provincial towns of England ; and could not fail 
being acceptable to the great reading pMl)h'c, as the recorded 
opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of pist 
and present times, deliberately formed by one of their tjwr 
number, who has himself written so much and so well, ana 
who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among con- 
temporaries.] 



■X 



BRING FLOWERS. 



Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ! 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and 

vale ; 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale. 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the 

rose. 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path ! 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy WTath.* 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day. 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's wayl 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell! 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell — 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They wiU bear him a thought of the sunny 

hours, 
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flow- 
ers, wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to 

wear! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side. 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young 

bride ! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white ros8 

burst. 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed I 



128 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Though they smile in vain for what once was 

ours, 
They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

praj'sr — 
They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part. 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 

"Alas ! the mother that him bare. 
If she hod been in presence there, 
In hie wan cheeks and sunburnt Iiair 
She had not known her child." 

Marmion. 

Rest, pilgrim, rest ! Thou'rt from the Syrian 
land, 

Thou'rt from the wild and wondrous East, I 
know 
By the long withered palm branch in thy hand, 

And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourn ! 
Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart. 

And dimmed in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at 
last: 
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the 
breeze, 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past, 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou'rt faint and worn — hear'st thou the foun- 
tain welling 
By the gray pillars of yon ruined shrine ? 
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling ? 
— He that hath left me trained that loaded 
vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 

(O, hath a day fled since his childhood's time !) 
That I might sit and hear the sound I love. 
Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper 
chime. 
And sit tlwu there ! — for he was gentle ever ; 
With his glad voice he would have welcomed 
thee. 
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parched 
lips' fever. 
There in his place thou'rt resting — where is he ? 



If I could hear that laughing voice again. 

But once again ! How oft it wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remembered strain. 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — > 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou 
seen 

In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore ! 

The dark, clear, lightning eye ! On heaven and 
earth 

It smiled — as if man were not dust it smiled ! 
The very air seemed kindling with his mirth. 

And I — my heart grew young before my child ! 
My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 

Filled all my home e'en with o'erflowing 

joy. 

Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. 
Where is he now ? — my pride, my flower, 
my boy ! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 
Like a spring dewdrop. Then his forehead 
wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light : 

I knew these woods might be his world no 
more ! 
He loved me — but he left me ! Thus they go 
Whom we have reared, watched, blessed, too 
much adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, 
And bounded from me with his father's sword 

Thou weep'st — I tremble ! Thou hast seen the 
slain 
Pressing a bloody turf — the young and fair, 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 
Where hosts have met : speak ! answ er ! — 
was he there ? 
O, hath his smile departed ? Could the grave 
Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless 
glee ? 

No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave ! ■ 

That look gives hope — I knew it could not be ! 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer ? Some fnnd moth- 
er's glance 

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years — 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance. 

Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears ? 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou ? 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on 
Look up ! O, is it — that wftn cheek and brow ! — 

Is it — alas ! yet joy — my son, my son ! 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF 
A SPIRIT. 

FBOH TnE OEBMAN OF SCHILLEB. 

" 'Tis not merely 

The human being's pride that peoples space 

With life and mystical predominance ; 

Since likewise for the stricken heart of love 

This visible nature, and this common world, 

Are all too narrow." — Coleridge's " TrVallensteic." 

[This song is said to have been composed by SchilJer in 
Hnswer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fats of 
Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the 
tragedy of WallensteirOs Death, after her resolution to visit 
the grave of her lover is made known.] 

Ask'st thou my home ? — my pathway wouldst 
thou know, 
When from thine eye my floating shadow 
passed ? 
Was not my work fulfilled and closed below ? 
Had I not hved and loved ? My lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is 
gone, 
That, melting into song her soul away. 
Gave the spring breeze what witched thee in its 
tone ? 
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep 
lay! 

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not 
found ? 
Yes ! we are one : O, trust me, we have met. 
Where nought again may part what love hath 
bound. 
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

rhere shalt thou find us, there with us be blest. 
If, as our love, thy love is pure and true ! 

There dwells my father,' sinless and at rest, 
Where the fierce murderer may no more 
pursue. 

And well he feels, no error of the dust 

Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken ; 

There it is with us even as is our trust — 
He that believes is near the holy then. 

There shall ea^.h feeling, beautiful and high. 
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly (fay. 

0, fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies ^jep meaning oft in childish play. 



1 Wallenstein. 



THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

A swifter, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here — the fair face and the careless 

heart. 
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. — — 
But I met a dimly mournful glance. 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 
In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 
And it is not well that woe should breathe 
On the bright spring flowers of the festal 

wreath ! — 
Ye that to thought or to grief belong. 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! But who art thou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young 

brow. 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes .' 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too 

well! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell > 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasure! 

forth. 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while ■ 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee - 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes j 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ! 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead : 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds oj 
mirth — 

Back to thy silent hearth I 

Ring, joyous chords ! — Ring forlh again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine. 
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine, 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled 
cloud* 



m 



MISCELLANEOUS POEM'S. 



I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
01 a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's 

might ! 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain 

wouklst shun, 
For il asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — 

awaj' ! — 

Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, oo ! — 
But where are the young and the lovely gone ? 
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crowned. 
And the floating forms with the bright zone 

bound ? 
And the waving locks and the flj"ing feet, 
Tliat stUl should be where the mirthful meet ? — 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted 

aU: 

Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep 'midst thy banners furled ! 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying. 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

"world ! 
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother's 

breast. 
O, strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, 
<Lnd now might love keep timid vigils by thee. 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh 

thee. 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! Now the field is 

won. 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring. 
And all the windings of thy native stream. 
Why, this were joy ! Upon the tented plain, 
Dream on, thou Conqueror ! - be a child again ! 



But thou wilt wake at mom. 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'er* 

sweeping ; 
So wUt thou rise, O thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee — the tired one, slumbering 

there ! 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel before 

thee, 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brothet 

weeps ? — 
Wake ! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, even thou. 
Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er 

thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night dew chill thy fevered brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press 

on ! — 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELL.» 

Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more 
From heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore. 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls ; 
And the dim tree shadows across thee pass, 
As the boughs are swayed o'er thy sUvery glass \ 

1 A beautiful spring in the woods near St. Asaph, former- 
ly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated 
to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of 
pilgrims. 

[Those who only know the neigliborhood of St. Asaph 
from travelling along its highways, can be little aware how 
much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two or 
three miles' distance from Mrs. Hemans's residence. Tlw 
placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder graces of the 
sister stream, the Ehvy, particularly in the vicinity of" Our 
Lady's Well," and tlie interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, 
are little known to general tourists ; though, by the lovers 
of her poetry, it will be remembered how sweetly she haa 
apostrophized the 

" Fount of the chapel with ages gray ; " 
and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thought! 
reverted to the 

" Cambrian river with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruined towers." 

— (Sonnet to the Kiver Clwyd.) 

— Memoir, pp. 92, 93. j 



AIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 43' 


And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, 


Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 


When ti 3 autumn wind hath a stormy tone ; 


Thine hours have floated by. 


And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain — 


To the joyous birds of the wood]*"*! b-.ughs, 


Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 


The rangers of the sky ; 


Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 


* 

And brightly in the forests, 


Bj- the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 


To the wild deer wandering free ; 


When he came from afar, his beads to tell. 


And brightly, 'midst the garden flowersi 


And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 


To the happy murmuring bee : 


There is heard no Ave through thy bowers, 




Thou art gleaming lone 'midst thy water flowers ! 


But how to human bosoms. 


But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave. 


With all their hopes and fears. 


And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 


And thoughts that make them eagle wings, 


And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 


To pierce the unborn years ? 


Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 






Sweet Summer ! to the captive 


Fount of the Virgin's ruinedP shrine ! 


Thou hast flown in burning dreams 


A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 


Of the woods, with all their whispering learei 


It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh 


And the blue rejoicing streams ; - 


With the notes that ring throiigh the laughing 




sky; 


To the wasted and the weary 


'Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird. 


On the bed of sickness bound, 


And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be 


In swift delirious fantasies. 


heard ! — 


That changed with every sound ; — 


Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 




To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free ? 


To the sailor on the billows. 


'Tis that all on earth is of Time's domain — 


In longings, wild and vain. 


He hath made thee nature's own again ! 


For the gushing founts and breezy hills. 




And the homes of earth again ! 


Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 




Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ; 


And unto me, glad Summer ! 


Thy rights are closed, and thy cross lies low, 


How hast thou flown to me ? 


And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now. 


My chainless footstep nought hath kept 


Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 


From thy haunts of song and glee. 


In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 




K peace to the mourner hath here been given, 


Thou hast flown in wayward visions. 


Or prayer, from a chastened heart, to Heaven — 


In memories of the dead — 


Be the spot still hallowed while Time shall 


In shadows from a troubled heart, 


reign. 


O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 


Who hath made thee nature's own again ! 






In brief and sudden strivings 




To fling a weight aside - 




'Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 


THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 


And all thy roses died. 


Thou'kt bearing hence thy roses ; 


But 0, thou gentle Summer ! 


Glad Summer, fare thee well ! 


If I greet thy flowers once moi%, 


Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 


Bring me again the buoyancy 


In every wood and dell. 


Wherewith my soul should soajr! 


But ere the golden sunset 


Give me to hail thy sunshine 


Of thy latest lingering day, 


With song and spirit free ; 


O, teU me, o'er this checkered earth, 


Or in a purer air than this 


How hast thou passed away ? 


May that next meeting be ! 



i37. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 

" Sing aloud 

Old songs, the precious music of the heart." 

WORDSWOKTH. 

SiNO them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight ! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved. 
And swell them through the torrent's roar. 

The songs our fathers loved ! — 

ITie songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered wall : 
The songs that through our valleys green. 

Sent on irom age to age, 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale. 

Cheered homeward through the leaves : 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep, 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on. 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them yoMY children round the hearth, 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth. 

And on the hills of deer. 
(So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam. 
Call back the hearts which once it stirred, 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain. 
The voices of their household band 

Shall breathe theii names again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise, 

Where, like the stag, they roved. 



Sing to your sons those melodies. 
The songs your fathers loved. 



THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 

* 
Come, while in freshness and dew it lies. 
To the world that is under the free blue skies I 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care — 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light, all made for the poet, dwells — • 
A light, colored softly by tender leaves, 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock dove is there in the beechen tree. 
And the lulling tone of the honey bee ; 
And the voice of cool waters 'midst feathery fern. 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tamelesa 

mirth. 
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, 

have birth ; 
There is peace where the alders are whispering 

low : 
Come from man's dwellings with all their woe ! 

Yes ! we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of humankind. 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright-blue vein along sunny meads : 

It is well through the rich wild woods to go, 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe ; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly 
stings ; 

And to watch the colors that iiit and pass. 
With insect wings, through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash tree's bark, 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliaga 
dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be. 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea : 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow 
We will bear no memory of earthly woe , 

But if, by the forest brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet ; 
If, 'midst the hills, in some lonely spot, 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot ; — 



If tlie cell, where a hermit of old hath prayed, 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; 
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave, — , 

Doubt not but there will oar steps be stayed, 
There our quick spirits a while delayed ; 
There will thought fix our impatient eyes, 
And win back our hearts to their sympathies. 

•''or wliat though the mountains and skies be 

fair, 
Steeped in soft hues of the summer air ? 
Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, 
f hat lights up all nature with living gleams. 

Where it hath suffered and nobly striven, 
Where it hath poured forth its vows to Heaven ; 
Where to repose it hath brightly passed, 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 

And by that soul, 'midst groves and rills. 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills. 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
We, only we, may be linked to God ' 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

U, ASK not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ! 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow — 
Few, and by s^rll conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet : 
Such ties would make this life of oiirs 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky. 

Where the rich sunset bums : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A drea'a, to his unknown. 

Thfc tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by nig.it. 
The wind, xhat, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 
55 



Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood. grew. 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by thy bed*- 

Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made. 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister floA\ ers of one sweet shade 

With the same breeze that bend — 
For that full bliss of thought aUie.^ 

Never to mortals given, 
O, lay thy lovely dreams aside. 

Or lift them unto Heaven 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OI 
THE NILE. 

In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the wellspring, deep and lone. 

Of Egypt's awful flood — 
The cradle of that mighty birth. 
So long a hidden thing to earth ! 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low mysterious tone — 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone. 
He listened — and his heart beat high : ' 

That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's moott 
Rushed burning through his frame, 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame ; 

Though stillness lay, with eve's last smilCt 

Round those far fountains of the Nile. 

Night came with stars. Across his soul 

There swept a sudden change : 
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 

A shadow dark and strange 
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 
O'er triumph's hour — and is this all f ' 



1 Bruce's mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the 
Nile are thus portrayed by him : — "I was, at tliat very 
moment, in possession of what had for many years been the 
principal object of my ambition and wishes ; indifference. 



f34 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



No more than this ! What seemed it now 

First by that spj ing to stand ? 
A thousand streams of lovelier flow 

Bathed his own mountain land ! 
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 
Their wild, sweet voices called him back. 

The5' called him back to many a glade, 

His childhood's haunt of play. 
Where brightly through the beechen shade 

Their waters glanced away ; 
They called him, with their sounding waves, 
Back to his father's hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene, 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between — 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride ? 

The spirit born to roam ? 
His altered heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ! 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept ! The stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears. 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years ! 
O Happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 



CASABIANCA.» 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
As born to rule the storm — 

which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, 
at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of 
it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon com- 
panson with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a 
trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent 
B»ene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, 
and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to 
treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent i 
elTort of a distempered fancy." | 

1 Young Casablanca, a boy about thirteen years old, son 
to tlie Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the 



A creature of heroic blood, 
A proud, though childlike form. 

T. e flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : — " Say, father ! say 

If yet my task is done ! " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

'« Speak, father ! " ones again he cried, 

'• If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair. 
And looked from that lone post of death. 

In still yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ? " 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud) 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high. 
And streamed above the gallant child 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — 0, where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part ; 

But the noblest thing which perished there 
Was that young faithful heart ! 



THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.'' 

'TwAs a lovely thought to mark the hours. 
As they floated in light away, 

Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the 
guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of 
the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. 

2 This dial was, I believe, formed by Linn^us, and marked 
the hours by the opening and closing, at regular interval* 
of the flowers arranged in it 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



431 



By the opening and the folding flowers, 
That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 

And its graceful cup and bell, 
In whose colored vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 

In a golden current on, 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those daj's of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

•^o in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far ofl" in a breezeless main. 
Which many a bark, with a weary quest. 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

Marked thus — even thus — on earth. 

By the closing of one hope's delight. 
And another's gentle birth ? 

0, let us live, so that flower by flower, 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



OUR DAILY PATHS.' 

Nonght shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
Is full of blesaings." Wokdswoeth. 

Thkb b beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can t*ace it 'midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 

1 This little poem derives an additional interest from be- 
ing affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished 
Ihan that of the late Mr. Dligald Stewart. The admiration 
be always expressed fur Mrs. Hemans's poetry was mingled 
with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy 
•ubjects ; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mu- 
tual fnend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would 
Binploj her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of 
(he wa"*s of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into 
(he bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, 
which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious 
Hind iind loving heart lisplayed in every line she wrote, 



We may find it where a hedgerow showers iti 

blossoms o'er our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the lasl 

red light of day. 

We may find it where a spring shines clear be- 
neath an aged tree, 

With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borni 
downwards by the bee ; 

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen 
stems is thrown. 

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copsea 
green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they 
cross the cold blue sky, 

While soft on icy pool and stream their pen- 
cilled shadows lie, 

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy 
frostwork bound, 

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower 
of crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths — but sorrow 
too is there : 

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, 
still summer air ! 

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst 
the joyous things. 

That through the leafy places glance on many- 
colored wings, 

With shadows from the past we fill the happy 

woodland shades, 
And a mournful memory of the dead is with ua 

in the glades ; 



than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, howevei 
beautifully and toucliiiigly such subjects might be treated of 
This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by re- 
turn of post, Mr?. Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) 
sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the 
poem of " Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given 
to Mr. Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for tht 
interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason 
of the mournful strain which pervaded them, " that a c'oud 
hung over her life which she could not always rise above." 
The letter reached Mr. Stewart just as he was stepping 
into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil 
House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh 
— the last time, alas '. his presence was ever to gladden tha< 
happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortl) 
afterwards. Tlie poem was read to him by his daughter, on 
his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the high- 
est degree charmed and gratified with the result of his sug 
gestions ; and some of the lines which pleased him mort 
particularly were often repeated to him during the f«w 
remaining weeks of his life. 



And our droam-like fancies lend the wind an 
echo's plaintive tone 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laugh- 
ter gone. 

But are we free to do e'en thus — to wander as 

we will, 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill ? 
No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes 

bind us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the 

golden day fleet past. 

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and 

violet dingles, back, 
A.nd from all the lovely sounds and gleams in 

the shining river's track ; 
They bar us from our heritage of spring time, 

hope, and mirth. 
And weigh our burdened spirits down with the 

cumbering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be ? Too much, too soon, de- 

spondingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of 

the field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell 

us, in their flight, 
Of One that through the desert air forever guides 

them right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and 
bid vain conflicts cease ? 

Ay, when they commune with themselves in 
holy hours of peace. 

And feel that by the lights and clouds through 
which our pathway lies, 

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are train- 
ing for the skies ! 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with 
grief, 
And his arms folded in majestic gloom ; 

And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound 

Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 

For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 



Man's heart and hope had struggled with hit 

woes, 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 
Now all was hushed ; and eve's last splendot 

shone 
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
And he too paused in reverence by that grave. 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave ; 

Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak. 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
" I listened for the words, which, years ago, 

Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is 
fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow. 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

'•Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? 

I was an eagle in my youthful pride. 
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's 
breath. 

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
Many the times of flowers have been since then — 
Many, but bringing nought like him again ! 

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he 
came. 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 
Not the dark glory of the Avoods to tame, 

Laying their cedars, like the cornstalks, low ; 
But to spread tidings of all holy things, 
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's 
wings. 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone, 

Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery 
tone ? 

He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, 

And our hearts burned within us as he spoke. 

" He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell ; 
Bright must they be ! for there are none that 
die. 
And none that weep, and none that say • Fare* 
weU ! ' 
He came to guide us thither ; but away 
The Happy called him, and he might not stay. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4^^ 



•We saw him slowly fade — athirst, perchance, 

For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; 
Vet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time : 
Therefore we hoped ; but now the lake looks dim. 
For the green summer comes — and finds not 
him ! 

" We gathered round him in the dewy hour 
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea ; 

But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long. 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

•* And then once more they trembled on his 
tongue, 
Vnd his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 

Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung 

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the 
dead ? 
It is enough ! he sank upon my breast — 
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray, 

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 
We reared this cross in token where he lay, 

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died. 
Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and 

wave, 
That flowery land whose green turf hides no 
grave. 

•' But I am sad ! I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whoee place it 
shone, 
The pathway to the better shore forsaken, 

And the true words forgotten, save by one. 
Who hears them faintly sounding from the 

past. 
Mingled with death songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling 
eye — 
" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 
Heaven darkly works ; yet, where the seed hath 

been, 
There shall the fruitage glowing yet be seen. 

*• Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 

Vnd by tt;e bu,-sts of free, triumphant singing, 
After cold silent months, the woods among ; 



And by the rending of the frozen chains. 
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains 

" Deem not the words of light that here were 
spoken 
But as a lovely song, to leave no trace ; 
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills ♦j* 
broken. 
And the full dayspring rise upon thy..race ! 
And fading mists the better path disclose, 
And the wide desert blossom as the rose." 

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, 

Each fraught with miisings for life's after day, 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child. 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon o?je, 'midst busy throngs to press, 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 

[" ' The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs. Ilemans, is in 
every way worthy of her delightful genius ; and nothing but 
want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs 
Hemans is, indeed, the star ttiat shines most brightly in tha 
hemisphere ; and in every thing she writes, there is, along 
with a tine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and 
religious truth. Of all the female poets of tlie day, Mrs 
Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most trulj 
feminine — no false glitter about her — no ostentatious dia 
play — no gaudy and jingling ornaments — but, as an Eng- 
lish matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant 
and religious." — Pkofessok Wilson, in Blackviood's Mag 
azine, December, 1826.] 



LAST RITES. 

By the mighty minster's bell, 
TolHng with a sudden swell ; 
By the colors half mast high, 
O'er the sea hung movirnfully ; 

Know, a prince hath died ! 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone. 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 

By the chanted psalm that filL) 
Reverently the ancient hills,* 
Learn, that from his harvestu done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 

Through the yew trees gleaming bright , 

>■ A custom i^till re^ainea at rufal funerals in soma puk 
of England and Wales 



By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all ? 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head. 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 

Tells not each of human woe ? 
Each of hope and strength brought low ? 
Number each with holy things, 
K one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER.' 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, 
When a young mother, with her first born, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vowed 
Unto the Temple service. By the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while. 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, 
To bring before her God. So passed they on 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon. 
Like lulling raindrops, or the olive boughs. 
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might 

rest ; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The ciimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose. 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades. 
Making its bank green gems along the wild. 
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips. 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reached. 
The earth's one sanctuary — and rapture hushed 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day. 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 

1 " It is long since we have read anj thing more beautiful 
than the l)llowing poem by Mrs. Hem ins." — Blackwood's 
Masaiint. January, 1826. 



Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, 
Turned from the white-robed priest, and round 

her arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring tide 
Of nature then swelled high, and o'er her 

child 
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. " Alas ! " she cried, 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me. 
The bright tears quivor in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords agair to earth have won me, 
And like a vine thou -^laspest my full heart — 

How shall I henci • depart ? 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou war* 

plajing 
So late, along the mouitains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pr Ade, 
By every place of floweis my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the Jilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee .so fair ! 

'« And, O, the home whence thy Vight smila 

hath parted. 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away ? 
While through its chambers wandering, weary 

hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 
Went like a singing rill ? 

" Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet 

me. 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings 

greet me. 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake. 
And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou — will slumber's dewy cloud fall 

round thee. 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 

thee. 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 
A cry which none shall hear ? 

" What have I said, my child ! Will He not heai 

thee. 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest 
Shall he not guard thy rest. 





7-UZ'C>} 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. • ts$ 


A.nd, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 


Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 


Breathe o'er my soul, and fill its dreams with 


Not without strife he died. 


joy? 


And near him on the seaweed lay — 


Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 


Till then we had not wept — 




But well our gushing hearts might say. 


■ • 1 give thee to thy God — the God that gave 


That there a mother slept ! 


thee, 




A. TiTJllspring of deep gladness to my heart ! 


For her pale arms a babe had pressed 


And, precious as thou art. 


With such a wreathing grasp. 


And pure as dew of Hermon, he shall have thee, 


Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast. 


My own, my beautiful, my undeiiled ! 


Yet not undone the clasp. 


And thou shalt be his child. 


Her very tresses had been flung 




To wrap the fair child's form. 


" Therefore, farewell ! I go — my soul may fail 


Where still their wet long streamers hung 


me. 


All tangled by the storm. 


As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 




Yearning for thy sweet looks. 


And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene. 


But thou, my first born, droop not, nor bewail 


Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 


me J 


Like slumber's, trustingly serene. 


rhou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 


In melancholy grace. 


The Rock of Strength. Farewell ! " 


Deep in her bosom lay his head, 




With half-shut, violet eye — 




He had known little of her dread, 




Nought of her agony. 


THE WRECK. 


f human love ! whose yearning heart, 


All night the booming minute gun 


Through all things vainly true, J 


Had pealed along the deep. 


So stamps upor thy mortal part 


And mournfully the rising sun 


Its passionate adieu — 


Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 


Surely thou hast another lot : 


A bark from India's coral strand, 


There is some home for thee. 


Before the raging blast, 


Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 


Had veiled her topsails to the sand, 


The moaning of the sea ! 


And bowed her noble mast. 




The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 




And true ones died with her ! 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 


THE TRUMPET. 


Like floating gossamer. 


The trumpet's voice hath roused the land*-* 


We saw her proud flag struck that morn, — 


Light up the beacon pyre ! 


A star once o'er the seas, — 


A hundred hills have seen the brand, 


Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 


And waved the sign of fire. 


And sadder things than these ! 


A hundred banners to the breeze 




Their gorgeous folds have cast — 


We saw her treasures cast away, 


And, hark ! was that the sound of seas * 


Vhe rocks with pearls were sown ; 


A king to war went past. 


And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 




Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 


The chief is arming in his hall. 


And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 


The peasant by his hearth ; 


Like ashes by a breeze ; , - 


The mourner hears the thrilling caU, 


And gorgeous robes — but 0, that shore 


And rises from the earth. 


Had sadder things than these ! 


The mother on her first-born son 




Looks with a boding eye — 


We saw the strong man still and low. 


They come not back, though all be won. 


A crushed reed thrown aside ; 


Whose young hearts leap so high. 



140 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en, for the marriage altar crowned, 

The loA'er quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How wiU it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



EVENING PRAYER, 

AT A girl's school. 

"Now in thy youth, beseech of Him 
Who giveth, upbraiding not, 
That liis light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Beknabd Babtoit. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room 
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp 

sheds 
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young 

heads. 
With all their clustering locks, untouched by 

care. 
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in 

prayer. 

Oaze on — 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and 
cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought ! 
Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and 
meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine 
wrought ? — 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 
What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 

As birds with slumber's honey dew oppressed, 
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Ldft up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer heaven of those clear eyes, 

Thoug^h fresh within your breasts the untrou- 
bled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the 
wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
Vet in those flute- like voices, mingling low, 
[s woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 



Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 
And patient smiles to wear through suffei 
mg's hour. 

And sumless riches, from affection's deep. 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted showei 

And to make idols, and to find them clay. 

And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray ' 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain. 
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be 
vain ; 
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
And, O, to love through aU things. Therefore 
pray; 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 
light, 
On through the dark days fading from their 
prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from 
bHght ! 
Earth will forsake — O, happy to have given 
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto 
heaven. 

/- 

^ / 

THE HOUR OF DEATH. / 

" n est dana la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a I'idee meme qn'on 
redoute." — Cokinne. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care ; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth i 
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 

prayer ; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming 

power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay. 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of thosi 
That wait the ripened bioom to seize theic 

prey. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 441 


Leaves have their time to fall, 


To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 


And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 


Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned 


And stars to set — but all, 


for thee. 


Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 






Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 


We know when moons shall wane, 


Even as a dewdrop from the myrtle spray, 


When summer birds from far shall cross the sea. 


Swept by the wind away ? 


When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 


Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 


grain — 


And was there power to smite them with de- 


But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 


cay ? 


Is it when spring's first gale 


Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres nven } 


Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 


Bowed be our hearts to think on what we are^ 


Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? 


When from its height afar 


They have one season — all are ours to die ! 


A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 




Shines not the less for that one vanished star 1 


Thou art where billows foam ; 




Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 




Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 


THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. 


And the world calls us forth — and thou art 




there. 


" The inviolate Island of the sage and free."— Bt«o» 




Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 


Thou art where friend meets friend. 


Your crested heights array. 


Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest ; 


And rise ye like a fortress proud 


Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 


Above the surge and spray ! 


rend 




The skies, and swords beat down the princely- 


My spirit greets you as ye stand. 


crest. 


Breasting the billow's foam : 




0, thus forever guard the land, 


Leaves have their time to fall. 


The severed land of home 1 


Ajid flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 




And stars to set — but aU, 


I have left rich blue skies behind. 


Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 


Lighting up classic shrines, 




And music in the southern wind. 




And sunshine on the vines. 


THE LOST PLEIAD. 






The breathings of the myrtle flowen 


» Like the lost Pleiad Been no more below." — Btkoit. 






Have floated o er my way ; 


Am) is there glory from the heavens departed ? 


The pilgrim's voice, at vesper houl». 


void unmarked ! — thy sisters of the sky 


Hath soothed me with its lay. 


Still hold their place on high. 




Though from its rank thine orb so long hath 


The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain* 


started, 


The purple heavens of Rome, — 


Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 


Yes, all are glorious, — yet again 




I bless thee, land of home ! 


Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 




She wears her crown of old magnificence. 


For thine the Sabbath peace, my land t 


Though thou art exiled thence — 


And thine the guarded hearth ; 


No desert seems to part those urns of light, 


And thine the dead — the noble band, 


'Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 


That make thee holy earth. 


They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 


Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 


The shepherd greets them on his mountains 


Their steps are on thy plains ; 


fre-i; 


Their names, by old majestic trees, 


And &om the silvery sea 
66 


Are whispered round thy fanes. 



M8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Their blood hath mingled with the tide 

Of thine exulting sea ; 
O, be it still a joy, a pride, 

To live and die for thee ! 



THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 
The kings of old have shrine and tomb 
Li many a minster's haughty gloom ; 
And green, along the ocean side, 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast, 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uneheered by praise, 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake. 
Resigned the bitter cup to take ; 
And silently, in fearless faith. 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 

Where sleep they, Earth ? By no proud stone 

Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 

The stUl sad glory of their name 

Hallows no fountain unto fame ; 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strewed 
The ashes of that multitude : 
It may be that each day we tread 
Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 
And the young flowers our children sow, 
Take root in holy dust below. 

O that the many rustUng leaves, 

Which round our homes the summer weaves, 

Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 

Our own familiar paths rejoice. 

Might whisper though the starry sky, 

To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled, 
Witl', knowledge of their presence filled. 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 
— Biit the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim love and awe repair. 
So let it be ! Like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret — but their sod. 
Unknown to man, is marked of God I 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

" Pregar, pregar, pregar, 
Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati ? " A LI 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Called thy harvest work to leave — 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land. 
Far from thine ovra household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE 
PRODIGAL. 

" Von Baumen, aiu Wellen, aus Mauem, 
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind ; 
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauem ? 
Komm' epielen, du freundliches Kind I" 

La Moiie FocQva 

O, WHEN wilt thou return 

To thy spirit's early loves ? 
To the freshness of the morn, 

To the stillness of the groves ? 

The summer birds are calling 
Thy household porch around. 

And the merry waters falling 
With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-veined flowers. 
From their banks of moss and fern, 

Breathe of the sunny hours — 
But when wilt thou jetum i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



443 



O, thou hast wandered long 

From thy home ^vithout a guide ; 

And thy native woodland song 
In thine altered heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth away, 
And the glory of thy spring ; 

Arid to thee the leaves' light play 
Is a long-forgotten thing. 

But when wilt thou return ? — 
Sweet dews may freshen soon 

The flower, within whose urn 
Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky. 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore. 
Darkly may shadows lie — 

But not forevermore. 

GUve back thy heart again 
To the freedom of the woods, 

To the birds' triumphant strain. 
To the mountain solitudes ! 

JJut when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

O, should not thine be there ? 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee ; 

And, by thy smile restored, 
Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye, 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look cf days gone by. 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said. 
For thee kind bosoms yearn. 

For thee fond tears are shed — 
O, when wilt thou return i 



THE WAKENING. 

Hovf many thousands are wakening now ! 
Bome to the songs from the forest bough. 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane. 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

Aod some, far out on the deep mid sea, 

To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, 



As they break into spray on the ship's tall side. 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 

And some — O, weU may their hearts rejoice ! — 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice : 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone. 
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breathy 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun. 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 

And some, in the gloomy convict cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell. 

As it heavily calls them forth to die. 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to the din from the city borne, 
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, 
Far 'midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this checkered earth : 
Each unto light hath a daily birth ; 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 
Are the voices which first our upspringing mest 

But otie must the sound be, and one the call. 
Which from the dust shall awaken us all : 
One ! — but to severed and distant dooms, 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs > 



THE BREEZE FROM SHORE. 

[" Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, bring! 
back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of 
simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which 
warmed the spring time of our being, refines youthful love, 
strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delinea- 
tions of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; and, tlirough th« 
brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on 
the future life." — Channing.] 

Joy is upon the lonely seas. 
When Ir dian forests pour 
Forth, to tje billow and the breeze, 
Their od jrs from the shore ; 
Joy, when tte soft air's fanning sigh 
Bears on the breath of Araby. 

O, welcome are the winds that tell 

A wanderer of the deep 
Where, far away, the jasmines dwell. 

And where the myrrh trees weep I 



Blest on the sounding surge and foam 
Are tidings of the citron's home ! 

The sailor at the helm they meet, 

And hope his bosom stirs, 
Upspringing, 'midst the waves, to greet 
The fair earth's messengers. 
That woo him, from the moaning main. 
Back to her glorious bowers again. 

They woo him, whispering lovely tales 

Of many a flowering glade. 
And fount's bright gleam, in island vales 
Of golden-fruited shade : 
A.cross his lone ship's wake they bring 
h. vision and a glow of spring. 

And, ye masters of the lay ! 

Come not even thus your songs 
That meet us on life's weary way, 
Amidst her toiling throngs ? 
STes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 
A current of celestial air. 

Their power is from the brighter cKme 

That in our birth hath part ; 
Their tones are of the world, which time 
Sears not within the heart : 
They tcU us of the living light 
In its green places ever bright. 

They call us with a voice divine, 

Back to our early love, — 
Our vows of youth at many a shrine, 
"Whence far and fast we rove. 
Welcome high thought and holy strain 
That make us Truth's and Heaven's again ! 



THE DYING IMPEOVISATOE.' 

• My heart iball be rourcd over thee — and break." 

FiiOPBECr OF Dantb. 

The spirit of my land, 
It visits me once more ! — though ~ must die 
F.ir from the mjatles which thy reeze hath 
fanned. 

My own bright Italy ! 

It is, it is thy breath. 
Which stirs my Bovl e'en yet, as wavering flame 

1 Sestini, the Eoman improvisator, when on his death 
bed at Pans, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, 
in bis most impassioned poetry. 



Is shaken by the wind, — in life and death 
StiU trembling, yet the same ! 

O that love's quenchless power 
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 
And through thy groves its dying music shower, 

Italy! Italy! 

The nightingale is there, 
The sunbeam's glow, the . citron flower's per- 
fume, ■ 
The south wind's whisper in the scented air — 

It will not pierce the tomb ! 

Never, O, nevermore, 
On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall 

dwell, 
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy 
shore — 
My Italy ! farewell ! 

Alas ! — thy hills among 
Had I but left a memory of my name. 
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, 

Unto immortal fame ! 

But like a lute's brief tone. 
Like a rose odor on the breezes cast, 
Like a svdft flush of daj'spring, seen and gone, 

So hath my spirit passed — 

Pouring itself aw-ay 
As a wild bird amidst tlie foliage turns 
That which within him triumphs, beats, ol 
burns. 

Into a fleeting lay ; 

That swells, and floats, and dies. 
Leaving no echo to the summer woods 
Of the rich breathings and impassioned sighji 

Which thrilled their solitudes. 

Yet, yet remember me ! 
Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 
When from my bosom, joyously and free. 

The fiery fountain sprung. 

Under the dark rich blue 
Of midnight heavens, and on the starlit sea, 
And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, 

Sweet friends 1 remember me ! 

And in the marble halls, 
Where life's fuh glow the dreams of beau^ 
wear. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 448 


Ajid poet tnoughts embodied light the walls, 


Whence were they ? — like the breath of flowerf 


Let me be with you there ! 


Why thus to come and go ? 




A long, long journey must be ours 


Fain would I bind, for you, 


Ere this we know ! 


RIy memory with all glorious things to dwell ! 




Fain bid aU lovely sounds my name renew — 




Sweet friends ! bright land ! farewell ! 






THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 




" Was mir fehlt ?— Mir fehlt ja allea, 




Bin so ganz veilassen liier t " 




Tykolese Melodt. 




The hearth, the hearth is desolate ! the fire is 


MUSIC OF YESTERDAY. 


quenched and gone 


• 0, mein Geirt, ich fuMe es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ucberir- 


That into happy children's eyes once brightly 


dischem, das keinem Menschcn gegonnt ist" — XiECK. 


laughing shone ; 




The place where mirth and music met is hushed 


The chord, the harp's full chord is hushed, 


through day and night. 


The voice hath died away. 


for one kind, one sunny face, of all that 


Whence music, like sweet waters, gushed 


there made light ! 


But yesterday. 






But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by 


Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell, 


mount and shore, 


The full o'ersweeping tone, 


Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 


The sounds that sighed " Farewell, farewell ! " 


to meet no more. 


Are gone — all gone ! 


Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 




joy or mirth. 


rhe love, whose fervent spirit passed 


Unbound is that sweet wreath of home — ala.<» ' 


With the rich measure's flow ; 


the lonely hearth ! 


rhe grief, to which it sank at last — 




Where are they now ? 


The voices that have mingled here now speak 




another tongue, 


They are with the scents by summer's breath 


Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs 


Borne from a rose now shed : 


their mother sung. 


With the words from lips long sealed in death — 


Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 


Forever fled. 


each household tone : 




The hearth, the hearth is desolate ! the bright 


The sea sheU. of its native deep 


fire quenched and gone ! 


A moaning thrill retains ; 




But earth and air no record keep 


But are they speaking, singing yet, as in theii 


Of parted strains. 


days of glee ? 




Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 


And all the memories, all the dreams, 


earth or sea ? 


They woke in floating by ; 


0, some are hushed and some are changed, and 


The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams — 


never shall one strain 


Could these too die ? 


Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly 




again. 


rhey died ! As on the water's breast 




The ripple melts away, 


And of the hearts that here were lir ked by long- 


When the breeze that stirred it sinks to rest — 


remembered years. 


So perished they ! 


Alas ! the brother knows not now "vhen fall the 




sister's tears ! 


Mysterious in their sudden birth, 


One haply revels at the feast, whLe one may 


And mournful in their close, 


droop alone : 


Passing, and finding not on earth 


For broken is the household chain, the bright 


Aim or repose. 


Are quenched and gone ! 





<46 



Miscellaneous poems. 



Not so — 'tis not a broken chain : thy memory 

binds them.s*ill, 
Thou holy hearth of other days ! though silent 

now and chill. 
The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine 

attesting stone, 
Have yet a living power to mark thy children 

for thine own. 

Tlie father's voice, the mother's prayer, though 

called from earth away, 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits 

yet shall sway ; 
And by ths past, and by the grave, the parted 

yet are one, 
Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright 

fire quenched and gone ! 



THE DREAMER. 

" There is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind j a 
thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our 
present consciousness and the secret inscription on the mind > 
but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for- 
ever." ENOLisn Opium Eateb. 
" Thou hast been called, O Sleep I the friend of woe \ 
But 'tis the happy who have called thee so." Southey. 

Peace to thy dreams! thou art slumbering 

now — 
The moonlight s calm is upon thy brow ;' 
All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 
Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest — 
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell. 
When eve through the woodlands hath sighed 

farewell. 

Peace ! The sad memories that through the day 
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay. 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 
That bowed thee as winds bow the willow's 

head. 
The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 
AH are forgotten ! Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblcst thou, dreamer ? O love and grief ! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up 
leaf! 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 
As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 



On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye. 
There's a large tear gathering heavily — 
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed : 
Sorrowful dreamer ! this is not rest ! 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours — 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. 
— O, we bear within us mysterious thmgs ! 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs 
And Passion — those gulfs of the heart to fill 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 
Well might we look on our souls in fear — 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the wings of death ? 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 

" O that I had wings like a dove 1 for then would I fly away, and 
be at rest." — Psalm Iv, 

O FOR thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thj' breast; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest shadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms. 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? 

Over what bless6d home, 
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage 
crowned, 

O, fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blessed, ever blessed, whate'er its aim, thou art I 

Unto the greenwood spray. 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that wiU blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far oiF, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



iil 



O, to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed — 
Bird ! bear me Avith thee through the sunny sky ! 

Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief ipspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign : 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, 
unknown. 

And burning woman's tears, 
Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar. 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet 
once more. 



PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE 
ISLAND OF PLEASURE.' 

" houvent rame, fortifiee par la contemplation des choses di- 
vines, voudroit deployer ses ailee vers le ciel. EUe croit qu'au 
Cerme de sa cariiere un rideau va se lever pour lui decouvrir des 
•cenes de lumiere : mais quand la mort touche son corps perissa- 
ble, elle jette un regard en arriere vers les plalsirs terrestreg et 
?eri ses compagnes mortelles." 

SciiLKOEL, translated by Mad^ime de Stael. 

Fearfully and mournfully 

Thou bidd'st the earth farewell ; 

And yet thou'rt passing, loveUest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 

The sunshine of that shore 
Around thee, as a glorious robe, 

Shall stream forevermore. 

The breezy music wandering 
There through the Elysian sky 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by. 

*• WrittftTi for 4 picture in wnich Psyche, on her flight up- 
nrards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously to 
lie earth. 



And there the day's last crimson 
Gives no sad memories birth, 

No thought of dead or distant friends, 
Or partings — as on earth. ■ 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st that earth farewell, 

Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one I 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless — 

The sunny wave's repose. 
The wood with its rich melodies, 

The summer and its rose : 

A land that sees no parting. 
That hears no sound of sighs, 

That waits thee with immortal air — 
Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 

O, how like ihee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
With timid love, to this, its world 

Of old familiar things ! 

We pant, we thirst for fcmntains 

That gush not here below ! 
On, on we toil, allured by dreams 

Of the living water's flow : 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our o-wn ; 
For «ommunings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known : 

We strive with brief aspirings 

Against our bonds in vain ; 
Yet summoned to be free at last, 

We shrink — and clasp our chain ; 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell, 
Though passing from its mists, like thee^ 

In a brighter world to dwell. 



THE BOON OF MEMORY 

" Many things answered me." — Manfked, 

I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade 
From the green spots ^'herein my childhood 
played. 
By my own streams ? 



448 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Must my life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 

Of its lone themes ? 
Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
rhe welcomes there, the hours when we have 
met 

In grief or glee ? 
All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
fhe kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Poured full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give. 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

Forevermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt. 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

£n the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell. 

Set deep that thought ; 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow. 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 

With me be fraught ! 

And Memory answered me : "Wild wish, and 

vain ! 
X have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own. 
Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'er- 
grown, 
Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, O Love ? And Love re- 
plied : 
"It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust. 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'Tis but to -v^rite, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust ! " 

Song, is the gift with thee ? 1 ask a lay. 
Soft, fervent, deep, that wiU not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Filled with a tone — O, not for deathless fame. 
But 9 sweet haunting murmur of my name. 

Where it would rest. 



DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRON- 
WYLFA AND RHYLLON. 

Bbonwtlfa,' after standing for some time in 
silent contemplation of Rhyllon, breaks out into 
the following vehement strain of vituperation. 

You ugliest of fabrics ! you horrible eyesore ! 
I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor ! 
In the face of the sun, without covering oi 

rag on. 
You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon. 
With your great green-eyed windows, in bold- 
ness a host, 
(The only green things which, indeed, you can 

boast,) 
With your forehead as high, and as bare as the 

pate 
Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,' 
You lift yourself up, o'er the countrj"- afar. 
As who would say, '• Look at me ! — here stands 

great R ! " 
I plant — I rear forest trees — shrubs great and 

small. 
To wrap myself up in — you peer through vhem 

all! 
With your lean scraggy neck o'er my poplars 

you rise ; 
You watch all my guests with your wide saucer 

eyes. 

{In a paroxys7n of rage.^ 
You monster ! I would I could waken some 

morning, 
And find you had taken French leave without 

warning ; 
You should never be sought like Aladdin's 

famed palace. 
You spoil my sweet temper — you make me 

bear malice : 
For it is a hard fate, I toill say it and sing. 
Which has fixed me to gaze on so frightful a 

thing. 
Rhyllon — {loith dignified eqiianimity .) 
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this 

rage? 
This sudden attack on my quiet old age ? 
I am no parvenu : you and I, my good brother, 
Have stood here this century facing each ether ; 
And I can remember the days that are gone, 
When your sides were no better arrayed than 

my own. 

1 Br'oiwvlta is prc"ouiiced as written Bronwylva ; and i 2 Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to ttie pate oi 

wrhaps tne nearest English approacli to the pronunciation Alschylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to croek 

of Rhyllon would be by supposing it to be spelt Ruthin, the the shell. 
• sounded as in but. 



KECORDS OF WOMAN. 



449 



Nay, the truth shall be told — since you flout 

me, restore 
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my 

door ! 
Since my baldness is mocked, and I'm forced to 

explain, 
-■•ray give me my large laurustinus again. 

( With a tone of prophetic solemnity.') 
Bronwylfa ! Bronwylfa ! thus insolent grown. 
Your pride and your poplars alike must come 

down ! 
I look through the future, (and far I can see, 
4.8 St. Asaph and Denbigh will answer for 

me,) 



And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou nast 
done, 

From my kind heart's brick bottom, I pity thea, 
Eron ! 

The end of thy toiling and planting will be, 

That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. 

Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out 
for the light, 

" I suppose it is morning, for Ehyllon looks 
bright ; " 

While I — my green eyes with their tears over- 
flow. 

( Tenderly. 

Come ! — let us be friends, as we were long ago. 



^/ 



RECORDS OF WOMAN 



MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 

MIIS ^in.TJMa AS A BLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, IS AFFECTIONATELY 

INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. 



" Mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
Of magic, potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distressed. 
And thougli his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast.'' 
' Das 1st sas Loos des Schonen auf der erde." 



Wordsworth. 
Schiller. 



ARABELLA STUART. 

I" The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently 
entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of 
Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth 
as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the 
misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly 
excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent 
her marrying, shut her out frSm the enjoyment of that do- 
mestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fer- 
vently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with 
William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the 
cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately 
placed in separate confinement. From this they found 
means to concert a romantic plan of escape ; and having 
won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was 
disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent 
sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last 
reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were 
in waiting. She embarked ; and at break of day a French 
vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. 
As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was de- 
sirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him ; but this 
wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to 
her entreaties, hoisted sail, " which," says D'Israeli, " oc- 

67 



casioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. 
Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached 
the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with » 
boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed ; tlie waves 
were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he 
descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, 
he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the 
French ship charged with his Arabella: in despair and con- 
fusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a 
large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." 
Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to \\K- 
ger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her 
husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the 
king's service, and broujrht back to a captivity, under the 
suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank, 
" What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot per- 
haps be recovered for authentic history, but enough \a 
known — that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost 
her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was 
short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some ef 
fusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, 
incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers." — 
D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. 

The following poem, meant as some record of her fa^5, 
and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feoZinea 



160 



RECORDS or WOMAN. 



Ib supposed to commence durmg the time of her first impris- 
onment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the con- 
icimisness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope 
of eventual deliverance.] 

" And 13 not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? " Byhon. 
••FermOBsi al fin il cor che balzo tanto." Pindbmonte. 



'TwAS but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 
Under the boughs where early birds were 

singing ; 
I stood o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and 

spear, 
Like a rich mask swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! A soft wind blew the clustering 

hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst 

1 im 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train. 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away. 
And, lightly graceftil in thy green array. 
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted 
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power. 
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless 

hearted. 
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that 

hour 
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, be- 
neath 
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath 
>f hidden forest flowers. 



'Tis past ! I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee. 
My love and friend ! Yet, fostering, for thy 
sake, 
A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman spirit strong. 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above. 
By its undying fervor, and prevail — 
Bending a breath, as of the spring's first gale. 



Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its brigh 

face. 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish. In this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meeti 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 



And thou too art in bonds ! Yet droop thou not, 
O my beloved ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light. 
When darkness, from the vainly- doting sight 
Covers its beautiful ! ' If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow - 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of "^aiaest tenderness, which now, even now 
Seems floating through my soul, were music 

taken 
Forever from this world — O, thus forsaken 
Could I bear on ? Thou livest, thou livest, 

thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall 

burn. 
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return. 



And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessud flight to 
thee. 
O for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall I fear that lot — the perfect rest. 
The full deep joy of idying on thy breast. 
After long suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 

1 " Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you Da 
it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and loould not fte 
covifurted, because her children were no wore. And that, in- 
deed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!" — From a 
letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband. — See Curiositiet 
of Literature. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



45 i 



B'.msct ! I tell each moment. From the skies 

The last red splendor floats along my wall, 
Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star — I hear — 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed 

too soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon risirig moon 
Sho\yer down less golden light. Beneath her 

beam 
Thiough my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love. 
Under the vine or in the citron grove, 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep. 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. Hark ! a bell's slow 

chime ! 
My heart strikes with it. Yet again — 'tis time ! 
A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come to meet thee on the 

seas ! 



Now nevermore, O, never in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — nevermore ! The hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay mj' youth, as in a burial urn. 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, even as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again. 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood. 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood. 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : it drew 

near. 
Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to re- 

caU 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my 

sight. 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
knd thee, my Seymour ! — thee ! 

I will not sink ! 
Thou, tliou hast rent the heavy chain that 

bound thee t 



And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 
That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath 

around thee, 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall 

yet 
Shine o'er my heart a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are 

broken ; 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 



My friend ! my friend ! where art thou ? Day 

by day. 
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away. 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the 

while, 
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; summer with her smile 
Fills the green forest ; young hearts breathe 

their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; hope laughs from loving 

eyes : 
All this is in the world ! — these joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path ! On 07ie alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken 

deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 



Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers . 
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon 

sent; 
O'er 3'ou the oak shed down the summei 

showers. 
And the lark's nest was where your bright 

cups bent. 
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath 

been. 
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. My soul grows 

faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream — the green. 

the free, 
The full of all sweet sound — the shut from me I 



There went a swift bird singing past my cell — 
O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely thingf 



td2 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 
And by the streams. But I — the blood of 
kings, 
A proud unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant ; and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crushed ! O, heaven is far — 
Eprth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong affection, of deliverance won 
Through its prevailing power ! Are these things 

told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt ; and thou ! O 

thou! 
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! Through the silent night, 

even now, 
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 

A.id ! — comes there yet no aid ? The voice of 

blood 
Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! Is there not 

a cry 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! — hear me ! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 
Have heavier cause ! Yet hear ! — my soul 

grows dark ! 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone. 
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unkno\yn, 
Its freight of human hearts ? The o'ermaster- 



mg wave 



Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save ! 

Tho'i hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know. 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is 

poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! A magic 

glass 
[s set within my soul, and proud shapes pass. 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ! 
see one shadow, stateliest there of all — 



Thine ! What dost thou amidst the bright and 

fair, 
Whispermg light words, and mocking my de- 

spair ? 
It is not well of thee ! ISIy love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought ex- 
plore ; 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying : 
Even thou, on whom they hung their last green 

leaf 

Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou foi 
grief ! . 

Death ! What ! is death a locked and treasured 

thing. 
Guarded by swords of fire ? ' a hidden spring, . 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 
Wherefore not spread free wings Heaven, 

Heaven ! control 
These thoughts ! — they rush — I look into my 

soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at the array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to 

pray ! 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled. 
Father in heaven ! thou, only thou, canst 

sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish 

filled, 
For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if thy child. 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath gro'wn 

wild. 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be 
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world 

poured — 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
The o'erwearied dust from home : no breeze 

flits by. 
But calls me with a strange sweet Av^hisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

1 «' And if you remember of old, / dire die. Considei 
what the world would conceive if I should be violently ent 
forced to do it." — Fragments of her Letters. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



4M 



Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death ! Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Even in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, 
Thee, its first love ! O, tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name. 
Though but a moment ! 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering o\\ the flight begun. 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my satce, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youtb : but now take 

back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, f.nd find thi^u happiness ! Yet send 
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear 

friend ! 
"Dovfv to my ^Dif-eless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been Pi rae all gifts of earth above. 
Though bought With burning tears ! It is the 

s'.mg 
Of death to leavo that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! The passion of long years I pour 
Into that word ! Thou hearest not — but the 

woe 
And fervor of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place : there let them dwell. 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell ! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.' 

' Fear I I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 



I will not live degraded." 



Sabdanapalus. 



CvyME from the woods with the citron flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 

1 Pounded on a circumstance related in the Second Series 
«f the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture 
A tlie " Painted Biography " there described. 



Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and th« 

breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas } 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flashed out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 

through ; 
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high. 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She looked on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turned — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

O, hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to tne dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When tne young bride goes from her father's 

hall; 
She goes unto love yet untried and new. 
She parts from love which hath still been 

true : 
Mute be the song and the choral strain. 
Till her heart's deep weUspring is clear again I 
She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 
She wept — yet laid her hand a while 
In his that waited her dawning smile — 
Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less 
For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 
She lifted her graceftil head at last — 
The choking swell of her heart was past ; 
Ajid her lovely thoughts from their cells founu 

way 
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.* 

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep ? To leave the vine 
Whose clusters o'er me bend ; 

2 A Greek lirUle, on leaving her father's house, take* 
leave of her friends and relatives frequently in extemporar 
neous verses. — See Fauriel's Chants Populairet dt Is 
Orice MotUrne. 



The myrtle — yet, O , call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

O, therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! We have played 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes ! thou and I, by stream, by shore. 

In song, in prayer, in sleep. 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet. 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune. 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child. 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my voutli hath smiled — 
leav^ thf 3 ! le'; me A'eep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! On thy breast 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have luUed me with your strain ! 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again ? — 

Sweet mother I let me weep ! 

And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart — as a mountain spring 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam. 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well ! — The cloud on her soul that lay 
Hath melted in glittering drops awaj'. 
W ake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so : 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng ; 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch through the foliage their white 

robes' gleam, 
Like a swan 'midst the reeds of a shadowy 

stream ; 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
le over the deep-Tcined violet's bed ; 



They have light leaves around them, blue skiei 

above, 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 



Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood. 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spreal, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime leaves that mingled on 

high. 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed. 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scattered out rays like a glancing river ; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crowned. 
Vine stalks its lattice and walls had bound ; 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain 

side. 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face — 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene. 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood scene. 
Bring wine, bring odors ! — the board is spread 
Bring roses ! a chaplet lor every head ! 
The wine cups foamed, and the rose was show- 
ered 
On the young and fair from the world embow- 
ered ; 
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! Was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore ? 
Silence ! — did thick raindrops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet ? 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword I 
The groves are fiUed with a pirate horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ! — 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang. 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang , 
Under the golden-fi-uited boughs 
There were flashing poniards and darkening 
I brows — 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



460 



Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled, 

Ajid the dj'ing soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! — 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With ti.8 blood from his breast u^ a gushing 

flow, 
Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe. 
And a gathering film in his lifted eye. 
That sought his young bride out mournfully. 
She knelt down beside him — her arms she 

wound. 
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around. 
As if the passion of that fond grasp 
Might chain in life with its ivy clasp. 
But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 
The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there : 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein. 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 
And a hush of fear through the summer grove. — 
So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 



Gloomy lay the shore that night, 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 
Bathed each purple Sciote hill — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal woe. 
In its changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing o'er th' ^gean flood. 
With a fixed and straining eye — 
O, was the spoUers' vessel nigh ? 
Yes ! there, becalmed in silent sleep, 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 
On a sea of molten silver, dark 
Brooding it frowned, that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast ; 
Ai:2^the heavy sound of its flapping sail 
Idly and vainly wooed the gale. 
Hushed was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rocked e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? The waves tremble ! — what piercing 

cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 
What light through the heavens, in a sudden 

spire, 
%oot8 from the deck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 



There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal gun, and call, 
And the dashing of water — but fruitless all ! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame, 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast, like a glittering snake 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 
It hath touched the sails, and their canvas rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivelled scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air, 
And reddened the stars with its wavy glare ; 
And sent oiit bright arrows, and soared in glee, 
To a burning mount 'midst the moonlight sea. 
The swimmers are plunging from stern and 

prow — 
Eudora ! Eudora ! where, where art thou ? 
The slave and his master alike are gone. - 
Mother ! Avho stands on the deck alone i 
The child of thy bosom ! — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Swayed by the flames as they rock and flare ; 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might ; 

And her eye with an eagle gladness fraught 

O, could this work be of woman wrought ? 
Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smiley 
It was hers : she hath kindled her funeral pile ! 
Never might shame on that bright head be : 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her 

free ! 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught hei 

ear. 
As the flames to her marriage robe draw near, 
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 
To the form they must never infold again. 
— One moment more,and her hands are clasped — 
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasped — 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bowed, 
And her last look raised through the smoke' 

dim shroud, 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love ! 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of thf 
field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with vvhicll 
the Austrian bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appear 
ance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwell, 
jng. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties o 



456 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



bis wife, a vcoman who seems to have been of an heroic spir- 
't, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon 
kbe measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.] 

" Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save woman's quietness of thought ; 
And yet around her is a light 
Of Inward majesty and might." M. J. J. 

" Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden f'echten." 

WiLLHELM Tell. 

It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or 
hiU, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss vaUeys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour. 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam. 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung 
bower ; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 

Then first looked mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree 

That sent its lulling whispers through his 
door, 
Even as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no 
more 
Th' accustom.ed j oy in aU which evening brings, 
Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hushed before him — sad, yet 
mild 
In her beseeching mien ! — he marked it not. 
The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot. 
But seemed unheard ; until at last the boy 
Raised from his heaped-up flowers a glance of 

joy, 

And met his father's face. But then a change 

Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 
And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the 
knee 
Bo often climbed, and lift his loving eyes 
That shone through clouds of sorrowful sur- 
prise. 

Chen the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 
But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 



Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Through tears half quivering, o'er him bent 

and said, 
" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart 

its prey — 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love 

away ? 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 
Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fail 
brow. 
Missing the smile from thine ? O, '/heer thee ! 
bend 
To his soft arms : unseal thy thoughts e'en 
now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen' d from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand 

" Speak low ! " he cried, and pointed where on 
high 

The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are 
come 
When tyranny lies couched by forest rills, 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain home 
Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear — 
Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been 
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 

Under my household tree, if not serene, 
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 

To-morrow eve may find me chained, and thee — 

How can I bear the boy's yoiHig smiles to see ? ' 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's 
cheek : 

Back on the linden stem she leaned her form,' 
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak. 

Like a frail harp string shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness passed. 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had 
moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet 
smile 
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 




RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



4^ 



Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour — 
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

A.y, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might 
As it found language — "Are we thus op- 
pressed ? 

rhen must we rise upon our mountain sod. 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

* I know what thou wouldst do ; — and be it 

done ! 
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! This, thy 

son, 
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be 

free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on 

earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head. 
And let thine eagle glance my joj-- restore ! 

I can bear all but seeing thee subdued — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois paths, and through the forests go ; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets 
glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me — I can pray ! " 

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking 
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air ; 

He caught her to his heart, while proud tears 
breaking 
From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair ; 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die ! 

" My bride, my M^fe, the mother of my child ! 

Now shall thy name ' be armor to my heart ; 
And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 

Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell : 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Fare- 
well ! " 

A.nd thus they \ arted, by the quiet lake, 
In the clear stj.-light : he the strength to rouse 



Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering 
boughs. 
Singing its blue half- curtained eyes to sleep 
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 

[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female scujiptor of Bologna. 
possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in cons»^ 
quence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Du 
cis, represents her showing her last work, a basso r\ jev« 
of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affbction 
who regards it with indifference.] 

" TeU me no more, no more 
Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness ? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and failed to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Sright find a resting-place, a liome for all 
Its burden of ilffections ? I depart, 
Unknown, though fame goes with me ; I must lear* 
The eartli unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tearo 
As would have made life precious," 



One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me poii:. 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. Yet one mow 

dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be 
Thou, loved so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavished ; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song that gushed when none werfl 

near, 
And dream by night, and weary thought by 

day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away -- 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die \ 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness — my spirit, wake ! 

Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 

Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he mal 

yet, 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 
Thine unrequited gift. 



i&8 



RECORDS OP WOMAN. 



It comes, the power 
Within me born flows back — my fruitless 

dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : they throng — they pres* 
A. sudden joy lights up my loneliness — 
1 shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose. 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty — line by line, 

Through the pale marble's veins. It grows ! 
— and now 
1 fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine : 

I give mj' own life's history to thy brow. 
Forsaken Ariadne ! — thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but O, more fair. 
Touched into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am passed away. Thou art the mould. 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold. 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 
"\Vith the soft sadness of thine earnest eye — 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully. 
Of all my love and grief ! O, could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice — a sweet, and low. 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came 

nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to 

bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath — to rise, to 

swell, 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 

in. 
Now fair thou art. 
Thou form, lyliose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee. O, I might have given 
Birth to crsations of far nobler thought ; 

I might have kindled, -with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ! A heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep afi'ections that o'erfiow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 



An eye to be my star ; a voice to bring 

Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of 

spring ; 
These are denied me — dreamt of still m -v ain. 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 



Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work ! in thee. 

Thou shalt have fame ! O mockery ! give 
the reed 
From storms a shelter — give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may in- 
twine — 
Give the parched flower a raindrop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless 

fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it asked ! Yet how my 

heart. 
In its own fairy world of song and art, 
Once beat for praise ! Are those high longings 

o'er ? 
That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never ! O, nevermore ! though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings 

fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still ; 
And though the mantle of thy sunHght streams 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet dreams. 
Never ! O, nevermore ! Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know 
Whose life is all within, too soon' and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ! But I go 

Under the silent wings of peace tc dwei* , 

From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain. 

The inward burning of those words — " in vain," 

Seared on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be 

past ! 

Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, O thou, on whom my spirit cast 

Unvalued wealth — who know'st not what wai 

given 
In that devotedness — the sad, and deep. 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart fourth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness ! — and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame' Yet I was formed to be 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



461 



Even as from warrior hearts ; and on its edge, 
Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss tufts 

deep, 
There lay, as lulled bj' stream and rustling sedge, 
A youth, a graceful youth. '♦ O, dost thou 

sleep ? 
Azzo ! " she cried, " my Azzo ! is this rest ? " 
But then her low tones faltered — '* On thy 

breast 
Is the stain — yes, 'tis blood ! And that cold 

cheek — 
That moveless lip ! — thou dost not slmnber ? — 

speak. 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! No sound — no 

breath — 
What hath come thus between our spirits ? 

Death ! 
Death ? — I but dream — I dream ! " And there 

she stood, 
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown. 
Her form sustained by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimmed eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shivered by the 

stream — 
Her brother's sword ! — she knew it ; and she 

knew 
Twas with a venomed point that weapon 

slew ! 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. 

There came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame ; 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knek, "with all her dark hair floating round 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and pressed 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast. 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad 

sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
— So the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 
Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight wing- 
ing, 
And steps and voices out amongst the vines. 
What found that dayspi'ng here! Tavo fair 

forms laid 
Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for 
the grave ? 



Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl, 
Decked as for bridal hours! — long braids o? 

pearl 

Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light 

And there was gold her slender waist intwinuig ; 

And her pale graceful arms — how sadly 

bright ; 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying. 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. 
But she died first ! — the violet's hue had spread 
O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppressed ; 
She had bowed heavily her gentle hesd. 
And on the youth's hushed bosom sunk to rest, 
So slept they well ! — the poison's work waj 

done ; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death 

had won. 



EDITH.' 

A TALE OP THE WOODS. 

" Du Heilige I rufe dein Kind zuruck I 
Ich habe genossen das irdiache Gluck, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet" Wallenstkiit. 

The woods — O, solemn are the boundlesa 
woods 

Of the great western world when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods. 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to broodi 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, 

there sate 
One young and fair ; and 0, how desolate ! 
But undismayed — while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darkened with the night. 
Alone she sate; though many lay around. 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground. 
Were scver'd from her need and from her woe, 

Ear as death severs life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the va'iant low 

And left them, with the history of their lot. 
Unto the forest oaks — a fearful scene 
For her whose home of other da^s had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! But the love 

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out 
fear ; 



1 Founded on incidents related :5n an American wori 
" Sketches of Connecticut" 



iG2 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



And by its might upborne all else above, 

She shrank not — marked not that the dead 
were near. 
Of him alone sl:.e thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

"While heavily she felt his lifeblood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hah* the streaming 

wound — 
Yet hoped, stUl hoped ! 0, from such hope how 
long 
Aff'ection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong ! 
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er 
believe 
The blow indeed can fall. So loved she there 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight 

down, 
Veining the pine stems through the foliage 

brown, 
And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. 
Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, 
The eye that faded looked through gathering 
haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastcring mortal agony, 

Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, 
When voice was not ; that fond, sad meaning 

passed — 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard — and mute she 

lay 
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. Love and 
Death ! 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful 
earth, 
Many and sad ! — but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your 
birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Then the moon sheds, came flushing mist and 

dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

plaj^ed ; 
Bright-colored birds with splendor crossed the 

shade. 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs 

broke 
From reed, apd spray, and leaf — the living 

strings 



Of earth's ^olian lyre, whose music woke 

Into young life and joy all happy thmgs. 
And she, too, woke from that long dreamless 

tranr,e, 
The widowed Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flashed o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that 

slept ; 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now. 
Where was she ? 'Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief. 
Whose home looked sad — for therein plaiyed nc 
child — 

Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there. 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touched with thoughts from some past sor- 
row sprung. 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung ; 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 

And leaning on his bow. 

And life returned — 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart ; and well the suff'erei 
learned 
Her task of meek endurance — well she wore 
The chastened grief that humbly can adore 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Even as breath of spring's awakening air. 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too 

soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go ; 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years : but Edith's face 
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place. 
And they again seemed parents. O, the joy, 
The rich deep blessedness, though earth's alloy, 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong aff'ection, in one healthful flow, 
On something all its own ! that kindly glow. 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain. 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



46 



When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle 

cares 
.rhe adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while 
With tae departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she prayed, 
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warned her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
Linked unto moments when the heart was 

stirred — 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and 

dim — 
By the persn^,sion of her, fervent eye. 
All eloquent with childlike piety — 
By the still beauty of her life she strove 
To w in for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 
Poured out on her so freely. Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds ; by slow degrees 
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade. 
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was 

made 
Even such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified. 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touched into golden bronze the cypress bough, 
\nd when the nuiet of the Sabbath time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
Now might she pass in hope — her work was 

done ! 
A.nd she was passing from the woods away — 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright 
Even yet with something of a starry light ; 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
^L rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn tlxrough the forests had gone by. 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
ts crimson leaves in many a shower had strewn. 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amids* the pines ; and now a softer green 



Fringed their dark boughs : for spring agair 

had come, 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things — when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms 

wake ; 
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful 

time, 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms. 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day. 
And sounds and odors, with the breezes' play 
AVhispering of spring time, through the cabin 

door. 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore. 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" — to the gray-haired chief she 

spoke -«- 
" Know'st thou that I depart ? " "I know, T 

know," 
He answered mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thjr beloved, my daughter ! " " Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother ! " with meek smiles 

once more 
She murmured in low tones : " one happy lot 

Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore 
For we have prayed together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own. 
Under the cedar shade ; where he is gone. 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learned — the Sa- 
vior's praj'er 
Which now ye know — and I shall meet you 

there. 
Father and gentle mother ! ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye 
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply. 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep 
Solemnly beautiful — a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrioi 

old. 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled 

"Thou'rt pas-sing from the lake's green side, 
And the hunter's hearth away ; 

For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride 
Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 



484 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



" Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear ; 
The corn month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

" And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

" A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

TeUing of winter gone. 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

" But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 
Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 

Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see 
No fear of parting more. 

" The mossy grave thy tears have wet. 
And the wind's wild meanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
'Midst flowers — not such as die. 

" The shadow from thy brow shall melt 

The sorrow from thy strain, _ 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

" Dim will our cabin be, and lone. 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

" And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land ! " 

The song had ceased, the list'ners caught no 

breath : 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY.' 

" 'What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart Heeds longest, and but heals to wear 
That which disfigures it" Childe Harold. 



BoTAii in splendor went down the day 
On the plain where an Indian city lay, 

* From a tale in Porbes's Oriental Memoirs. 



With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 

Red, as if fused in the burning sky ; 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays whic) 

made 
A bright stream's way through each long arcade. 
Till the pillared vaixlts of the banian stood 
Like torchlit aisles 'midst the solemn wood ; 
And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold, 
As a tree midst the genii gardens old. 
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire. 
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 
Many a white pagoda's gleam 
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream. 
Broken alone by the lotus flowers. 
As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 
Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 
Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 
With the water vase from the palmy shade. 
Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 
Down marble steps, to the tanks below ; 
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard. 
As the molten glass of the wave was stirred. 
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, 
Told where the Bramin bowed in prayer. 
— There wander' d a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathlesi 

joy; 

He gazed where the stately city rose, 
Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose ; 
He turned where birds through the gorgeous 

gloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume; 
He tracked the brink of the shining lake, 
By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake ; 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind. 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high. 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery Avest, 
Spread out like a metal mirror's breast ; 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep. 
Seemed made for the swimmer's joyous leap. 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase. 
For all free things of the wildwood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sk y 
Was the kindling flash cf the boy's glad eye ; 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave 
Dashing the spraydrops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight, 



KECOHUS OF WOMAN. 



465 



And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother looked from her tent the while 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stayed the march of her pilgrim train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief hours 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers : 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright 

fall, 
The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 



The moon rose clear in the splendor given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 
The boy from the high-arched woods came 

back — 
O, what had he met in his lonely track ? 
The serpent's glance, through the long reeds 

bright ? 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No ! yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soiled and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye. 
And a gash on his bosom — he camo to die ! 
He looked for the face to his young heart sweet. 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 
" Speak to me ! whence doth the swift blood 

run ? 
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son ? " 
The mist of death on his brow lay pale, 
But his voice just lingered to breathe tht ale, 
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 
And wounds from the children of Brahma tf-'ne. 
This was the doom for a Moslem found 
With a foot profane on their holy ground — 
This was for sullying the pure waves, free 
Unto them alone — 'twas their god's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

The mother shrieked not then nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood. 

Rending her mantle to stanch its flood ; 

But it rushed like a river which none may stay. 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with heaven in vain — 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasped to our bosoms, its mortal mould. 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had 

passed ! 
Are there no w^ords for that common woe ? 
Ask of the thousands its depth that know ! 
59 



The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest. 
Like a low- voiced dove, on. her gentle breast ; 
He had stood, when she sorrowed, beside her 

knee. 
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee 5 
He had kissed from her cheek the widow's tears, 
With the loving lip of his infant years ; 
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring 

day — 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Murdered ! Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell I 

She bowed down mutely o'er her dead — 

They that stood round hor watched in dread ; 

They watched — she knew not they were by — 

Her soul sat veiled in its agony. 

On the silent lip she pressed no kiss — 

Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this } 

She shed no tear, as her face bent low 

O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ', 

She looked but into the half-shut eye 

With a gaze that found there no reply, " 

And, shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 

And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might. 

And what deep change, what work of power. 

Was wrought on hev secret soul that hoi" "^ 

How rose the lonely one ? She rose 

Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 

And proudly flung from her face the veil, 

And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood — 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high, 

With a close and rigid grasp she pressed 

The blood-stained robe to her heaving bre^nt 

And said — " Not yet, not yet I weep, 

Not yet my spirit shall suik or sleep ! 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turned, 
The strength of her step was the heart thai 

burned ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother passed with her slaughtered 

child. 



Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods round the Indian city borne 



466 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



A. peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin looked from the leaguered towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flashed through the plantain 

shade, 
As the light of the lances along it played ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were 

high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering banian tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
O, deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had passed, 
And her tale had rung hke a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips poured, 
Each one a spell to unsheathe the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear. 
And the dark chief of Araby grasped his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, , 
And a vow was recorded that doomed its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came, 
When her voice had kindled that lightning 

flame ; 
She came in the might of a queenly foe. 
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 
But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
There sought the warrior his star of fate : 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign, 
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught 
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! — the gift of grief 
That lights up vengeance to find rehef, 
Transient and faithless ! It cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turned from her sad renown. 
As a king in death might reject his crown. 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way — 
She withered faster from day to day : 
AH the proud sounds of that bannered plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born, 



Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, 
As on that eve when the fair boy died : 
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone. 
Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. 
She murmured a low sweet cradle song. 
Strange 'midst the din of a warrior throng — 
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek. 
But something which breathed from that mourn- 
ful strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again ; 
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried — 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm boughs 

wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there oul 

grave." 
And the temples fell, though the spirit passed. 
That staid not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the inartyr dead, 
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. 

Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar 

steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes. 
And the streams glowed red, as from warrior 

veins ; 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leaped on its flying prey, 
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



THE PEASANT GHIL OF THE RHONfi 

" There is but one place in the world 

Thither, where he lies buried I 



There, there is all that still remains of him: 
That single spot is the whole earth to me." 

Coleridge's " WaUeniteio.* 
' Alas I our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert." — Childk Habou) 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



467 



There went a warrior's funeral through the 

night, 
A. waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
Prom the high woods, along the sweeping 

Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread 
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
A.S chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver, 
floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet 

pale. 
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of 

one, 
O, who shall speak ? "vVTiat words his brow un- 
veil r 
A father following to the grave his son ! — 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow, 
Through the wood shadows, moved the 

knightly train. 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low — 
Fair even when found amidst the bloody 

slain, 
6tretched by its broken lance. They reached 

the lone 
Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shuddered through the 

pile, 
rUl crested heads at last in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given: — and Aymer 

slept 
Beneath the drooping banners of his line. 
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had 

swept 
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine. 
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave ; 
And the pale image of a youth arrayed 
As warrio-'s are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. Then aU was done, 
All still around the dead. His name was heard 
perchance when wine cups flowed, and hearts 

were stirred 
By some old song, or tale of oattle won 
Told round the hearth. But in his father's 

breast 
Manh(5od's high passions woke again, and 

pressed 



On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing 

tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side 
Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void place 
Filled up so soon ! — so like a summer cloud, 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? — not of all ! The sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip ere while, 
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade with- 
drew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetnesa 

lying 
Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep. 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart 

leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, 
Through the dim fane soft summer odora 

breathing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing. 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glomng 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet 

there 
Might speak of love — a secret love and 

lowly ; 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair ; 
And the faint passion flower, the sad an4 

holy, 
TeU of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells. 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet 

bells, 
To blush through every season ? Blight and 

chill 
Might touch the changing woods ; but duly still 
For years those gorgeous coronals renewed, 

And brightly clasping marble spear and hehn, 
Even through midwinter, filled the solitude 
With a strange smile — a glow of summer' « 

realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pounng 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness ' 



(68 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



One spring morn rose, 
A.nd found within that tomb's proud shadow 

laid — 
O, not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon — a dark- haired peasant 

maid. 
Who could reveal her story ? That still face 
Had once been fair ; for on the clear arched 

brow 
And the curved lip there lingered yet such grace 
As sculpture gives its dreams ; and long and 

low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimmed, the slight form all wasted, as by 

care. 
Whence came that early blight ! Her kindred's 

place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; 
Yet there her shrine had been ! She grasped a 

wreath, 
i'he tomb's last garland ! — This was love in 

death. 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG. 

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's 
desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe witli lier 
children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cata- 
ract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mourn- 
ful death song, until overpowered by the sound of the wa- 
ters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's 
" Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River."] 

"Non.jene puis vivre aveo uu coeur brise. n faut que je re- 
Irouve la joie, et que je ra'unisse aux esprita libres de I'air." 

" Bride of Messina," Translated by Madame de Stael. 

" Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman." 

" The Prairie." 

Down a broad river of the western wilds. 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the fail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf- like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within. 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood ! Upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart. 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose a while 
Above the sound of waters high and clear. 
Wafting a wild proud strain — a song of death. 



" Roll swiftly to the spirit's land, thou noighty 

stream and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, roll ! and bear qui 

lives with thee ! 
The weary bird that storms have tossed would 

seek the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to 

the woods of balm. 

" Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath looked upon 
another's face, 

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 
moonbeam's trace : 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whis- 
per to his dream — 

He flings away the broken reed. Roll swiftei 
yet, thou stream ! 

" The voice that spoke of other days is hushed 

within his breast, 
But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not 

let me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness 

that is gone — 
I cannot live without that light. Father of 

waves ! roll on ! 

" Will he not miss the bounding step that met 
him from the chase ? 

The heart of love that made his home an ever- 
sunny place ? 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
decked his couch of yore ? — 

He will not ! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to 
the better shore ! 

" Some blessed foiwit amidst the woods of that 
bright land must flow. 

Whose waters from my soul may lave the mem- 
ory of this woe ; 

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 
breath may waft away 

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of 
the day. 

" And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, 

for woman's weary lot. 
Smile ! — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! 

I leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching 

love away — 
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn ! from 

sorrow and decay. 

1 " Father of waters," the Indian name for the M,<s3ia 
sippl. 



' She bears thee to the glorious bowers where 

none are heard to weep, 
And where th' unkind one hath no power again 

to trouble sleep ; 
And where the soul shall find its youth, as 

wakening from a dream : 
One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, 

dark-roUino; stream ! " 



JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS. 

["Jeanne d'Arc avail eu la joie de voir i Chalons quel- 
ques amis de son enfanco. Une joie plus ineffable encore 
I'attendait i Rheims, au sein de son trioniphe: Jacques 
d'Arc, son pere, y se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de 
Charles VII. y furent entrees ; et coinine les deux frferes de 
notre heroine I'avaient accompagnee, elle se vit pour un in- 
stant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un p6re ver- 
tueax." — Vie de Jeanne d'^rc] 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame I 

A draught tliat mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away 1 to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from alfection's spring! 

Ihat was a joyous day in Rheims of old. 
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled 
Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while 

around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listened at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ? Within, the light. 
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 

flowing, 
ringed with soft awfulness a stately sight — 
The chivalry of France their proud heads 

bowing 
In martial vassalage ! While 'midst that ring, 
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the 

hymn 
Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 
As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproached, beside the altar stone, 
With the white banner forth like sunshine 

streaming. 
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming, 
Bilent and radiant stood ? The helm was raised, 
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed, 
intensely worshipping — a stiil, clear face, 



Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 
Yet glorified, with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love. 
Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That slight 

form ! 
Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye 
Guided the warrior where the swords flashed 

high ? 
'Twas so, even so ! — and thou, the shepherd's 

child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land, 
And, beautiful with joy and with renown. 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransomed for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet notes be shaken. 
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken, 

And come thou forth, that heaven's rejoicing 

sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue 

skies. 
Daughter of victory ! A triumphant strain 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gushed through the portals of the antique 

fane, 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound : 
0, what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the 

cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts that 

filled 
The hoUow heaven tempestuouslj' were stilled 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. " Joanne ! " 

— Who spoke 

Like those whose childhood with her child- 
hood grew 
Under one roof? "Joanne!" — that murmui 
broke 

With sounds of weeping forth ! She turned 

— she knew 

Beside her, marked from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair. 



470 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest born, that ever loved her best : — 
' ' Father ! and ye, my brothers ! " On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank — and swiftly back. 
Even in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp 

no more. 
The plumes, the banners : to her cabin door, 
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,' 
Where her young sisters by her side had played. 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turned. The very wood note, sung 

In early spring time by the bird which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves 
hung, 

Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt. 
Winning her back to nature. She unbound 

The hebn of many battles from her head, 
And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the 
ground, 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said — 
" Bless me, my father ! bless me ! and with thee. 
To the still cabin and the beechen tree. 
Let me return ! " 

O, never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price — 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home, with aU its loves — doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 

To die for what we love I O, there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this : 
It is to live without the vanished light 
That strength is needed. 
" Cos! trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde." Ta s s o. 

Axoxo the starlit scene went music swelling. 
Till the air thrilled with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 
For cares or stricken hearts were found on 
earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

1 A beautiful fountain, near Domremi, believed to be 
naunteu by fairies, and a favorite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in 
her childhood. 



For in a palace of the land that night 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves wert 
hung ; 

And from the painted walls a stream of light 
On flying forms beneath soft splendor flung ; 

But lovehest far amidst the revel's pride 

Was one — the lady from the Danube side.* 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! though now no mort 
Her clear eye flashed with youth's all-tamelesi 
glee. 
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore. 

There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 
A charm with graver, tenderer sweetness 

fraught — 
The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky 

Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair. 
As her young daughter in the dance went by 

With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurked there no secret boding in her breast .'* 

Did no faint whisper warn of evU nigh ? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems 
blest 
'Midst the light laughter of festivity. 
Whence come those tones ? Alas ! enough we 

know 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying 

In fairy rings around the echoing hall ? 
Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sigh- 
ing. 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 
Silence ! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a 

sound, 
A strange qiuck rustling which their notes had 
drowned ! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had 
shed ! 
From the gay dream of revelry awaking. 

One moment holds them still in breathless 
dread. 
The wild fierce lustre grows : then bursts a cry — 
Fire ! through the hall and round it gathering 
— fly! 

2 The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of 
her fate is beautifully related in L'Mlcmagne, vo;. hi 
p. 336. 



i^fi'^>RDS OF WOMAN. 



471 



A.nd fofth they rush, as chased by swoid and 
spear, 
To the green coverts of the garden Dowets — 
d. gorgeous mask of pageantry and fear, 
Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 
WhUe from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

Ajid where is she — Pauline ? The hurrying 
throng 

Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 
Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 

Till now the threshold of that death is past, 
And free she stands beneath the starry skies. 
Calling her child — but no sweet voice replies. 

" Bertha ! where art thou ? Speak ! O, speak, 
my own ! " 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs th* wiiile, 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, 

Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile : 
A young bright form, decked gloriously for death. 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierte 
breath ! 

Cut O, thy strength, deep love ! There is no 
power 

To stay the mother from that rolling grave. 
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower. 

And forth like banners from each lattice wave ; 
Back, back she rushes through a host combined — 
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, 'midst the 
roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 
None ! — Courage there stood still — and never- 
more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes ! 
Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild fare- 
well ? 
And died they heart to heart ? — 0, who can tell ? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 

On that sad palace, 'midst its pleasure shades ; 
Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with 
smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 
But yestereve their shafts with wreaths were 

bound, 
Now lay the scene one shrivelled scroll around ! 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 
Of all that woman's heart had dared and done f 



Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal places 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone 1 
Those had the mother, on her gentle breast, 
Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest 

And thej' were all ! — the tender and the true 

Left this alone her sacrifice to prove. 
Hallowing the sjDot where mirth once lightly 
flew. 
To deep, lone chastened thoughts of grief and 
love. 
0, we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe ! 



JUAN A. 

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the 
death of her husband, Philip the Handsome, of Austria, who 
had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid 
upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress ; and being pos- 
sessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a 
length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of r» 
turning life.] 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love. 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the graye ' 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart. 
So must it ever end : too mueh we give 
Unto the things that perish. 

The night wind shook the tapestry round an 
ancient palace room. 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through 
the gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful 
gleams and red, .»^-— - 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead. 

Pale shone the featiires of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see. 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free : 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay. 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's airay. 

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the 

cold slumberer's side, 
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and m hej 

garb no pride ; 
Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay 

she bent, 
A wildness and a tenderness in strange respler 

dence blent. 



t72 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer 

spoke aloud ; 
She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, 

" Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew 

it could not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke 

of death for thee ? 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud 

thy gallant form around, 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crowned ! 

' With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath. 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said 

that this was death ? 
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness 

round thee long. 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all un- 

dimmed and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round 
a light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold un- 
smiling cheek — 

0, I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 

•' But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord ! 

and hear'st how I have kept 
A. lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed 

and wept — 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have passed — 
Surely that humble patient love must win back 

love at last ! 

• And thou wilt smile — my omti, my own, shall 

be the sunny smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all hut me 

ere while ! 
No more in vain aifection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
3, years of hope deferred were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 



"Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look whei 

thou comest from the chase — 
For me, for jne, in festal haUs it shall kindle o'et 

thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift minfl 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shaU. give 

me loveliness. 

" But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet 

once more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music 

of thy voice. 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone. 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured 
forth day by day, 

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 
soul found way. 

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'el 
every grace, 

Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the prince- 
ly form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon th« 
watcher's breast. 

And they bore away the royal dead with re- 
quiems to his rest. 

With banners and with knightly plumes all 
waving in the wind — 

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 
despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman I — a power to suffer and to love ; 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke — 
" Sing us a death song, for thine hour is come " — 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair' d youth of England, 
stood, 
Like a king's son ; though from his cheek hat? 
flown 

The mantling crimson of the island blood. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



473 



And his pressed lips looked marble. Fiercely 

bright 
Ajid high around him blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : but who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Known but to Heaven that hour ? Perchance a 

thought 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums drooped ; or haply binding 
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth. 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth. 
Where sat their mother ; and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smUe yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 
Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Good night " m.ight breathe from boy- 
hood gone ! 
- He started, and looked up : thick cypress 

boughs, 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, dark- 
ly red 
In the broad stormy fii-elight ; savage brows, 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread. 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Looked through the branches as through dun- 
geon bars, 
Shedding no hope- He knew, he felt his doom — 
O, what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England. Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ? Who might dream or 

hear 
The secret of the forests ? To the stake 

They bound him ; and that proud young sol- 
dier strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake. 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — the fondly reared — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! And fettered there 
He stood beside his death pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush ! hark ! aery 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity — 
A step Ixatb. pierced the ring ! Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood : 
A girl — a young flight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savannas and the leafy wild, 
60 



Springing unmarked tUl then, as some lone 

floAver, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, 
For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervor swayed* 
Even to the stake she rushed, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye, 
And clear-toned voice, that said, "He shall not 

die ! " 
" He shall not die ! " — the gloomy forest thrilled 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were 

stilled. 
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed ; their dark souls bowed before thw 

maid. 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue. 
As her black tresses to the night wind flew, 
Something o'ermastered them from that young 

mien — 
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive'i 

breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death » 
They quenched the brand beneath the cypress 

tree : 
'• Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art 

free ! " 



COSTANZA. 

Art thou then desolate ? 
Of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me t 
I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false 7 
Flatterers deceived thee i' Wanderer, come to me I 
Wliy didst thou ever leave me ? Know'st thou all 
I would have borne, and called it joy to bear. 
For thy sake ? Know'st thou that thy voice hath power 
To shake me with a thrill of happiness 
By one kind tone ? — to fill mine eyes with tears 
Of yearning love 7 And thou — O, thou didst throw 
That crushed affection back upon my heart,' 
Yet come to me ! — it died not. 

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stained window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow. 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow. 



474 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright wares of gold — the autumn forest'e 

hue — 
Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye. 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervor lived ! And yet what woe, 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! O, he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chastened heart to feel. 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years. 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to Heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and 

made 
A temple at the pine and chestnut shade, 
FUling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and 

dim. 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds 

in dreams — 
Music for weary hearts ! 'Midst leaves and 

flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers. 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed 
Came and brought hope ! while scarce of mor- 
tal birth 
He deemed the pale fair form that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long, a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling 
well; 
And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone. 
Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there 
Costanza hfted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood. 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met 
The floating son^j. Strange sounds ! — the 

trumpet's peal, 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel ; 
The rallying war cry. In the mountain pass 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
And the pine branches crashed before the flying. 



And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : there entered hurrying feet, 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow — mail-clad mei>, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle glen, 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roo^ 

bore 
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him : then foi 

flight, 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 
Sped breathlessly again. They passed ; but he, 
The stateliest of a host — alas ! to see 
What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep, 
Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep, 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden 

crest 
Was shivered, and the bright scarf on hia 

breast — 
Some costly love gift — rent : but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven locks — the 

breeze, 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them; steeped in bloody 

showers, 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark 

ray, 
Where was it ? And the lips ! — they gasped 

apart. 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art. 
Still proudly beautiful ! But that white hue — 
Was it not death's ? — that stillness — that cold 

dew 
On the scarred forehead ? No ! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay. 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken. 
The haughty chief of thousands — tne forsaken 
Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, un- 
known, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourned the strong 

man's raving. 
He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled 

form 
StiU hovering nigh ! yet, sometimes, when that 

storm 
Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing. 
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently 

bringing 



KECOEDS OF WOMAN. 



475 



Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebbed from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams ; 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmured forth, " Where am I ? What soft 

strain 
Passed like a breeze across my burning brain ? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she now ? and where the-gauds of pride, 
Whose hollow splendor lured me from her side ? 
AU lost ! — and this is death ! — I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ; 
Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardoned I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale. 
And stood before him with a smile — O, ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear — 
And said, " Cesario ! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust. 
As should be Heaven's alone — and Heaven is 

just! 
[ bless thee — be at peace ! " 

* But o'er his frame 

roo fast the strong tide rushed — the sudden 

shame, 
The joy, th' amaze ! He bowed his head — it fell 
On the wronged bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE. 

"Who should it be ? Where shouldst thou look for kindnesa ? 

When we are sick, where can we turn for succor ? 

When we are wretched, where can we complain ? 

And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 

Wii such sure confidence as to a mother 1? *' — Joanna Baillie. 

'• My child, my chUd, thou leavest me ! I shall 

hear 
rhe gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear 
With its first utterance : I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around. 



And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's closo^ 
And thy ' Good night ' at parting for repose. 
Under the vine leaves I shall sit alone. 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea, 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of 

France, 
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woa 
From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. Now, farewell ! farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never teL 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pUlowed there, and wont to 

raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : these moments are gone 

by- 
Thou too must go, my flower ! Yet with thee 

dwell 
The peace of God ? One, one more gaze : fare- 
well ! " 

This was a mother's parting with her child — 
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, 
And wooed her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home : yet there, with fond 

delay. 
She hngered on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellised rose leavea 

float, 
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept, 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept 
Gushed o'er her soul, and many a vanished day. 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calmed heart, young Madeline ere long 
Poured forth her own sweet, solemn vesper song, 
Breathing of home,. Through stillness heard 

afar, 
And dulj' rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean solitudes were passed, 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful 

world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Looked on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere yearg 



(76 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 

tears ! 
That home was darkened soon : the summer 

breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the 

seas : 
Death unto one, and anguish — how forlorn ! 
To her that, widowed in her marriage morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him. 
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side 
By the close veil of misery. O, but ill, 

When with rich hopes o'erfr aught, the young 

high heart 
Bears its first blow ! It knows not yet the 

part 
Which Hfe will teach — to suffer and be stUl, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future 

hours 
To send no busy dream ! She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turned 
In weariness fi'om life. Then came th' unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast. 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps : until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams 
In her own sunny land ; and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was 

fraught. 
To strangers ? O, could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised ? Did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half- unconscious flow ? 
Something was there that, through the linger- 
ing night, 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light — 
Something that faints not through the day's dis- 
tress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness — 
Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came 

that power, 
tJprearing through the storm the drooping 

flower ? 
Whence ? — who can ask ? The wild delirium 

passed, 
And from her eyes the spirit looked at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery 

hue. 



The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had th' 

come, 
Thus in life's evening from her distant home, 
To save her child ? Even so — nor yet in vain ; 
In that young heart a light sprang up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seemed this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
(That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet'mother ! gentlest mother ! can it be .' " 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore : 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines onoe 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 

[" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, neai 
Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, 
among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and 
should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds ; 
but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the 
dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, 
and the outline of the human form was plainly visible be- 
neath its folds. Tlie person with me reverently turned it 
back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait 
statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance — not aa 
in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Noth- 
ing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her 
features. The hands are folded on the bosom ; the limbs 
are sufftciently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the 
king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at hel 
grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above thii 
living image of their departed mother." — Sherek's A"o(«l 
and RejUctions during a Ramble in Germany. ] 

" In sweet pride upon that insult keen 
She smiled ; tiicn drooping mute and broken hearted, 
To the cold comfort of the grave departed." HlLKAir. 

It stands where northern willows weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep 

From cypress branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread. 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead 

And what within is richly shrined ^ 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely, in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm : 
Yet not of death, but slumber, Ilea 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, tne ca^m pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow. 
The gentle yet majestic grace 

Throned on the matron brow ; 



These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
Witn a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem --nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below 
Was royal in her birth and woe. 

There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue ; 
She was a mother — in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
O, hallowed long be every leaf. 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoiled, 
The standard of their sires borne down. 

The shield's bright blazon soiled : 
She met the tempest, meekly brave, 
Then turned o'erwearied to the grave. 

She slumbered : but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour. 
With the glad shout, and signal flame 

Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved — 
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep ; 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial poured 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the ci owned eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain — 

So was the triumph won ! 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's ! — She was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 

[On the roadside, between Penrith and Appleby, stands 
l small pillar, with this inscription : " This pillar was 
irected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess Dowager of 
►embroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, 
with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dow- 
ager of Cumberland, on the 2d April, 1616." — See notes to 
the Pleasures of Memory. 



Mother and child ! whose blending tears 

Have sanctified the place, 
Where, to the love of many years, 

Was given one last embrace — 
O, ye have shrined a spell of power 
Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought — 

A stiU, small undertone. 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who but a mother's love hath known— 
The one love changing not r 

Alas ! and haply learned its worth 

First with the sound of "Earth to earth ' " 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou. 
O'er whose bright honored head 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow 
E'en here were fondly shed — 

Thou from the passion of thy grief, 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For O, though painful be th' excess, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling dwells ; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride. 

Poisoned the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 

And all — was all in this world o'er 
With ties thus close and true ? 

It was ! On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where, deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of otter days 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring 

Yet, while thy place of weeping stiU 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name, 'midst wood and hil) 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign, — 



178 RECORDS OF WOMAN. 


Can I, while yet these tokens wear 


Between thee and the golden glow 


The impress of the dead, 


Of this world's vernal dawn. 


Think of the love embodied there 




As of a vision fled ? 


Parted from all the song and bloom 


A perished thing, the joy, and iiower, 


Thou would st have loved so well. 


And glory of one earthly hour ? 


To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 




Was but a broken spell. 


Not so ! — I will not bow me so 




To thoughts that breathe despair I 


The bird, the insect on the wing, 


A loftier faith we need below, 


In their bright reckless play, 


Life's farewell words to bear. 


Might feel the flush and life of spring — 


Mother and child ! — your tears are past — 


And thou wert passed away. 


Siirely your hearts have met at last. 






But then, e'en then, a nobler thought 




O'er my vain sadness came ; 




Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 




Within my thrilling frame. 


THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.^ 


Surely on lovelier things, I said, 




Thou must have looked ere now, 


I 8T00D beside thy lowly grave ; 


Than all that round our pathway shed 


Spring odors breathed around, 


Odors and hues below. 


And music, in the river wave. 




Passed with a lulling sound. 


The shadows of the tomb are here, 




Yet beautiful is earth ! 


All happy things that love the sun 


What seest thou, then, where no dim fear, 


In the bright air glanced by. 


No haunting dream, hath birth ? 


And a glad murmur seemed to run 




Through the soft azure sky. 


Here a vain love to passing flowers 




Thou gavest ; but where thou art 


Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough 


The sway is not with changeful hours — 


That fringed the ruins near ; 


There love and death must part. 


Young voices were abroad — but thou 




Their sweetness couldst not hear. 


Thou hast left sorrow in thy song. 




A voice not loud but deep ! 


And mournful grew my heart for thee ! 


The glorious bowers of earth among, 


Thou in whose woman's mind 


How often didst thou weep ? 


The ray that brightens earth and sea, 




The light of song, was shrined. 


Where coiddst thou fix oa mortal ground 




Thy tender thoughts wid high ? 


Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 


Now peace the woman's heart hath found. 


With a dread curtain drawn 


And joy the poet's eye. 


" Extrinsic Interest has lately attached to the fine sce- 


runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that hav« 


Miy ofWoodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having 


been partially converted into a church, reverently throw 


been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave 


their mantle of tender shadow over it —Tales by the O'Sa- 


b one of maiy in th« churchyard a ' the village. The river 


ra Family. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 479 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 


THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 


'Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? " Maemion. 


" I have dreamt thou wert 
A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 
From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 




"Whose image unto thee is as a dream 


I'HE stately homes of England ! 
How beautiful they stand, 


Of fire and slaughter. I can see thee wasting, 
Siclc for thy native air." L. E. L. 


Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 


The champions had come from their fields of 


O'er all the pleasant land ! 


war, 


The deer across their greensward bound, 


Over the crests of the biUows far ; 


Through shade and sunny gleam ; 


They had brought back the spoils of a hundred 


And the swan glides past them with the 


shores, 


sound 


Where the deep had foamed to their flashing 


Of some rejoicing stream. 


oars. 


The merry homes of England ! 


They sat at their feast, round the Norse king's 


Around their hearths, by night. 


board ; 


What gladsome looks of household love 


By the glare of the torchhght the mead was 


Meet in the ruddy light ! 


poured ; 


There woman's voice flows forth in song, 


The hearth was heaped with the pine boughs 


Or childhood's tale is told. 


high, 


Or Hps move tunefully along 


And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown 


Some glorious page of old. 


by. 


The blessed homes of England ! 


The Scalds had chanted in Etmic rhyme 


How softly on their bowers 


Their songs of the sword and the olden time ; 


Is laid the holy quietness 


And a solemn thrill, as the harp chords rung, 


That breathes from Sabbath hours '. 


Had breathed from the walls where the brigh 


Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 


spears hung. 


Floats through their woods at morn ; 




-All other sounds, in that still time. 


But the swell was gone from the qmvering 


Of breeze and leaf are born. 


string ; 




They had summoned a softer voice to sing ; 


The cottage homes of England ! 


And a captive girl, at the warriors' call. 


By thousands, on her plains. 


Stood forth in the midst of that firowning 


They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 


hall. 


And round the hamlet fanes. 




Through glowing orchards forth they peep. 


Lonely she stood — in her mournfol eyes 


Each from its nook of leaves ; 


Lay the clear midnight of southern skies ; 


And fearless there the lowly sleep. 


And the dooping fringe of their lashes low 


As the bird beneath their eaves. 


Half veiled a depth of unfathomed woe. 


The free, fair homes of England ! 


Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 


Long, long, in hut and hall. 


Seemed struck with the blight of some inward 


May hearts of native proof be reared 


flame. 


To guard each hallowed wall ! 


And her proud pale brow had a shade of scOrn, 


And green forever be the groves. 


Under the waves of .her dark hair worn. 


And bright the flowery sod, 




Where first the child's glad spirit loves 


And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze 


Its country and its God ! 


O'er her marble cheek by the pine fire's blaze- 



ftSO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



No soft hue caught from the south -wind's breath, 
But a token of fever at strife with death. 

She had been torn from her home away, 

With her long locks crowned for her bridal 

day, 
A-nd brought to die of the burning dreams 
That haunt the exUe by foreign streams. 

They bade her sing of her distant land — 

She held its lyre with a trembling hand. 

Till the spirit its blue skies had given her 

woke. 
And the stream of her voice into mxisic broke. 

.Faint was the strain in its first wild fiow — 
Troubled its miurmur, and sad, and low ; 
But it swelled into deeper power ere long. 
As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew 
strong. 

' They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny 
land ! of thee ! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn- 
ful-sounding sea ? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? In silence 
let me die. 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and 
thy pure, deep sapphire sky : 

How should thy IjTe give here its wealth of 
buried sweetness forth — 

Its tones of summer's breathings born, to the 
wUd winds of the north ? 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more ! My 

spirit shall awake. 
And through the mists of death shine out, my 

country, for thy sake ! 
That I may make thee known, with all the 

beauty and the light, 
And the glory nevermore to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight ! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy 

bright streams warble by. 
Thy soul fiow o'er my lips again — yet once, 

my Sicily ! 

" There are blue heavens — far hence, far hence ! 

but O, their glorious blue ! 
Its very night is beautiful with the hj'acinth's 

deep hue ! 
It is above my own fair land, and roimd my 

laughing home. 
And arching o'er my vintage hUls, they hang 

their cloudless dome ; 



And making all the waves as gems, that meU 

along the shore. 
And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now ia 

mine no more. 

«« And there are haunts in that green land — O; 

who may dream or tell 
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and 

dell? 
By fountains fiinging rainbow spray on dark 

and glossy leaves, 
And bowers wherein the forest dove her nest 

untroubled weaves ; 
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the 

richness of its breath. 
And the violets gleam like amethysts from the 

dewy moss beneath. 

"And there are fioating sounds that fill the 

skies through night and day — 
Sweet sounds ! t]j.e soul to hear them faints in 

dreams of heaven away ; 
They wander through the olive woods, and o'er 

the shining seas — 
They mingle with the orange scents that load 

the sleepy breeze ; 
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there — it 

were a bUss to die, 
As dies a leaf thy groves among, my flowery 

SicUy ! 

" I may not thus depart — farewell ! Yet no, 

my country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave ? I feel it 

■ must be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main. 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through 

thy w^oods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — I break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blessed — in thy 

sweet air, my home ! " 

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre - • 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire — 
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold. 
Loosed from their braids, down her bow<>m 
rolled. 

For her head sank back on the rugged wall — 

A silence fell o'er the warriors' hall ; 

She had poured out her soul with her song'i 

last tone : 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone \ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



IVAN THE CZAR. 

[" Ivan le Terrible, 6tant deji devenu vieux, assi6gait 
Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demande- 
rent s'il ne voulait pas donner le conimandement de I'as- 
eaut 4 son fils. Sa fiireur fut si grande i cette proposition, 
lae rien ne put I'appaiser ; son fils se prosterna i ses pieds ; 
il le repoussa avec iin coup d'une telle violence, que deux 
jours aprfes le niallieureux en mourut. Le p^re, alors au 
d^scspoir, devint indifferent k la guerre comme au pouvoir, 
•t ne survecut que pen de mois i son fils." — Dix Annies 
d'Exil, par Madame de Stael.] 



" Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ihn wieder habeu I . . . . 

Trostlose allmacht, 
Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mit Menschenleben nicht yerbessem kann I ' 



He sat in silence on the ground, 

The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war ; 
ile had cast his jewelled sahre, 

That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead — 

His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down. 
Which the lord of nations mutely watched. 

In the dust, with his renown. 

Low tones at last, of woe and fear, 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burdened with agony. 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek., 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honor of thy father's namej 

Look up, look up, my son ! 
61 



" Well might I know death'a hue nnd mien • 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle. 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 

" I will not bear that stUl cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, Arise ! 

" Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child 

That in mine arms I pressed : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

Like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle horse, 

I look upon thee — dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave. 
And bury my red sword and spear, 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquered, 

I ha'-e slain : my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not — 

Thou too art mute, my son ! " 

And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night. 
And the battle knew no more his sword. 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sighed ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank— 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



i82 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



CAROLAN'S PROPHECY. 

l" It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish 
Bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a 
pianxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose fa- 
Cher's house he frequented, and where he always met with 
a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endow- 
ments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose 
lomething in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside 
bis harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing 
himself in Irish to her mother, ' Madam,' said he, ' I have 
often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a 
planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, 
but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me ; there 
is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melan- 
choly sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not 
doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he emphali- 
eallv, ' she will not survive twelve months.' The event 
verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the 
period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard." — Per- 
cy Anecdotes.} 

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes ; o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast ; 
Thy tears gush forth too soon ; and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peaee on earth ; O, therefore, child of song I 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills, 
Caiae suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, 
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard 
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 
Flashing through rock and wood : the sunset's 

light 
Was on his wavy, sUver-gleaming hair, 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash, 
Whose clusters drooped above. His head was 

bowed, 
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 
Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood 
Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 
Th' unchaining of his souL the gush of song — 
Many and graceful forms ! — yet one alone 
Seemed present to his dream ; and she, indeed. 
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek. 
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes. 
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful. 
E'en painfully ! — a creature to behold 
With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen 
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 
Too dim without its brightness ! Did such fear 
O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one. 
By his own rushing stream ? Once more he 

gazed 
Cpon the radiant girl, and yet once more 
From the deep dords his wandering hand 

brought out 



A few short festive notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dashed with grief — 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermastered hun ; but yielding then 
To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, 
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he poured 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang : — 

" Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sere leafs trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree 

I hear thee, O thou voice ! 
And I would thy warning were but for me, 

That my spirit might rejoice. 

" But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh. 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily, 

And the woods — but they hear not the* • 

'* Long have I striven 

With my deep-foreboding soul ; 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven. 

And darkly on must roll. 
There's a young brow smiling near. 

With a bridal white-rose wreath — 
Unto me it smiles from a flower)' bier. 

Touched solemnly by death ! 

" Fair art thou, Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky ! 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rUl, 
That makes the dim woods tuneful rouE d — 

But soon it must be still ! 

" Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie — 
Make not the strength of love thy trust. 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge notes wild and low 

Its ringiag tones have died. 

" Young art thou, Morna I 
Yet on thy gentle head, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



481 



Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer breeze, 

And thou too must depart ! 

" Yet, shall I weep ? 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know. 

And the chill of this world's breath — 
Go — all undimmed in thy glory, go ! 

Young and crowned bride of death ! 

" Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright. 
And soaring hopes, that v/ere not given 

For the touch of mortal bhght ! 
Might we follow in thy track. 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! " 

There was a burst of tears around the bard : 
All wept but one — and she serenely stood. 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye 
Raised to the first faint star above the hiUs, 
And cloudless ; though it might be that her 

cheek 
Was paler than before. So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring returned, 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again — 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smUe, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

FBOU THE " POBTEAIT OALLERY," AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

If there be but one spot on thy name, 

One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice 

Whose tones thou shrink'st from— Woman 1 veil thy face, 

And bow thy head— and die I 

rHOU seest her pictured with her shining hair, 

(Famed were those tresses in Proven(;al song,) 
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair 
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 
Midst the rich curls ; and O, how meekly loving 
[ts earnest looks are hfted to the face 
Which bends to meet ''.s hp in laughing grace ! 



Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness 
Than might beseem a mother's ; on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn, 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty bom. 
These may be dreams — but how shall woman 

tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears ? Sh« 

fell! 
That mother left that child ! — went hurrying by 
Its cradle — haply not without a sigh. 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung. But no ! it could not thus have been, 
For she went on ! — forsook her home, her hearth. 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, 
To live a gaudy and dishonored thing. 
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life. 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. 

He recked no more of glory : grief and shamo 

Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year : the minstrel passed theu 

walls ; 
The warder's horn hung mute. Meantime th<» 

child 
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent 

smiled, 
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 
Into sad youth ; for well, too well, she knew 
Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain 
Would there have lingered ; flushed her cheek 

to pain. 
If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone. 
E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was 

low 
And plaintive. 0, there lie such depths of woo 
In a young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears ; 
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days ; — 
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight 

In one so fair — for she indeed was fair ; 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light - 
Hers were more shadowy, fuU of thought and 
prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender stiU and meuk. 
Still that fond child's — and O, the brow above 
So pale and pure ! so formed for holy love 



t84 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To gaze upon in silence ! But she felt 

That love was not for her, though hearts would 

melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that called on 

heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn 
With alms before her castle gate she stood. 
Midst peasant groups : when, breathless and 

o'er worn. 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke. The orphan 

maid. 
With her sweet voice and proffered hand of 

aid, 
Turned to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers — a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood. 
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such 

tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years 
From the heart's urn ; and with he^white lips 

pressed 
The ground they trod ; then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out — " O unde- 

filed! 
I am thy mother — spurn me not, my child ! " 

Isaure had prayed for that lost mother ; wept 
O'er her stained memory, while the happy slept 
In the hushed midnight ; stood with mournful 

gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days. 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weighed her being to the earth with 

shame. 
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the altered guise, 
A while o'erpowered her ? From the weeper's 

touch 
She shrank — 'twas but a moment — yet too 

much 
For "vat all- humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Cume down like lightning, and her full heart 

broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone, 
Those long fair tresses — they still brightly wore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled. 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 



Her child bent o'er her — caUed her : 'twas tot 

late — 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate ' 
The joy of courts, the star of night and bard -- 
How didst thou fall, O bright-haired Ermen- 

garde ! 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. 

" O good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world I 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times." 

As Yoir Like It. 

Fallen was the house of Giafar ; and its name, 
The high romantic name of Barmecide, 
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, 
By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun'a 

wrath, 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 
Had so passed sentence : but man's chainlesa 

heart 
Hides that within its depths which never yet 
Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun. 
Spread out m ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales 
Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still 

one voice 
Was there — the fountain's ; through those East 

em courts. 
Over the broken marble and the grass. 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! An aged man, 
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate 
On a white column's fragment ; and drew fortli. 
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, 
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 
He told that sad yet stately solitude, 
Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom, 
liike waters in the waste ; and calling up. 
By song or high recital of their deeds. 
Bright solemn shadows of its vanished race 
To people their own halls : with these alone, , 
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts 
Held still unbroken converse. ; He had been 
Reared in this lordly dwelling, and was now 
The ivy of its ruins, unto which 
His fading life seemed bound. Day rolled on day 
And from that scene the loneliness was fled ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



480 



For crowds around the gray-haired chronicler 
Met as men meet v/ithin whose anxious hearts 
Pear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a 

breeze 
Wanders through forest branches, and is met 
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 
The spirit of his passionate lament, 
As through their stricken souls it passed, awoke 
One echoing murmur. But this might not 

be 
Under a despot's rule, and, summoned thence, 
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 
And with his white lips rigidly compressed ; 
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak 
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace ? His burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, 
And he was changed! — and thus, in rapid 

words, 
111' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than 

death, found way : — 

"And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble 
and the brave, 

With the glory on their brows, are gone before 
me to the grave ? 

What is there left to look on now, what bright- 
ness in the land ? 

1 hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their 
princely band ! 

■« My chiefs ! my chiefs ! the old man comes 

that in your halls was nursed — 
That followed you to many a fight, where flashed 

your sabres first — 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart : 
O, must the music of that name with him from 

earth depart ? 

'• It shall not be ! A thousand tongues, though 
human voice were still, 

With that high sound the living air triumphantly 
shall fill; 

The wind's free flight shall bear it on as wan- 
dering seeds are sown, 

And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep 
and thrilling tone. 

■* For it is not as a flower whose scent with the 

dropping ^eaves expires ; 
&J1 1 it is not as a household lamp, that a breath 

should quench its fires ; 



It is written on our battle fields with the writing 

of the sword. 
It hath left upon our desert sands a light in bless 

ings poured. 

" The founts, the many-gushing founts which to 

the wild ye gave. 
Of you, my chiefs ! shall sing aloud, as they pooi 

a joyous wave ; 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloonu 

ye hung the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your 

praises on the day. 

" The very walls your bounty reared for the 

stranger's homeless head 
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my 

glorious dead ! 
Though the grass be where ye feasted oncCt 

where lute and cittern rung, 
And the serpent in your palaces lie coiled amidst 

its young. * 

"It is enough ! Mine eye no more of joy or 

splendor sees — 
I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and 

to the breeze ! 
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the 

bright and fair. 
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my 

chiefs ! are there." 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 
O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a 

thought — 
O, many a sudden and remorseful thought — 
Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred 

race, 
O'erflowed his softening heart. " Live ! live ! " 

he cried, 
" Thou faithful unto death ! Live on, and still 
Speak of thy lords — they were a princely band ! " 



THE SPANISH CHAPEL.» 

" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyei, 
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profaned what was bom for the skiei." 

Moosa 

I MADE a mountain brook my guide 
Through a wild Spanish glen, 

1 Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Ret* 

lections of the Peninsitla 



486 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And wai»dered on its grassy side, 


And the bright ringlets hung'so still — 


Far from the homes of men. 


The lovely child was dead ! 


It lured me -with a singing tone, 


"Alas ! " I cried, " fair faded thing ! 


And many a sunny glance, 


Thou hast wrung bitter tears. 


To a green spot of beauty lone. 


And thou hast left a woe, to cling 


A haunt for old romance. 


Round yearning hearts for years ! " 


A dim and deeply-bosomed grove 


But then a voice came sweet and low — 


Of many an aged tree, 


I turned, and near me sate 


Such as the shadowy violets love, 


A woman with a mourner's brow. 


The fawn and forest bee. 


Pale, yet not desolate. 


The darkness of the chestnut bough 


And in her still, clear, matron face, 


"There on the waters lay, 


All solemnly serene, 


The bright stream reverently below 


A shadowed image I could trace 


Checked its exulting play, 


Of that young slumberer's mien. 


And bore a music all subdued, 


*' Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said 


And led a silvery sheen 


With lips that faintly smiled, 


On through the breathing solitude 


" As here I watch beside my dead, 


Of that rich leafy scene. 


My fair and precious child. 


For something viewlessly around 


" But know, the time-worn heart may be 


Of solemn influence dwelt. 


By pangs in this world riven, 


In the soft gloom and whispery sound, 


Keener than theirs who yield, like me, 


Not to be told, but felt ; 


An angel thus to heaven ! " 


While, sending forth a quiet gleam 




Across the wood's repose, 




A.nd o'er the twilight of the stream, 


THE KAISER'S FEAST. 


A lowly chapel rose. 






[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put liis brother, th« 


A pathway^ to that still retreat 


Palsgrave Rodolphus, under tlie ban of the empire in th« 


Through many a myrtle wound, 


twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England 


And there a sight — how strangely sweet ! 


where he died in neglect and poverty. " After his decease, 
his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return 


My steps in wonder bound. 


to Germany ; and, by her mediation, during a season of fes- 




tivity, when Louis kept wassail ru the castle of Heidelberg, 


For on a brilliant bed of flowers. 


the family of his brother presented themselves before him in 


E'en at the threshold made. 


the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To 




this appeal the victor softened." — Miss Btnger'a Memnr 


As if to sleep through sultry hours, 


of the Qiieen of Bohemia.] 


^A young fair child was laid. 






The Kaiser feasted in his hall — 


To sleep ? — 0, ne'er, on childhood's eye 


The red wine mantled high ; 


And sUken lashes pressed. 


Banners were trembling on the wall 


Did the warm living slumber lie 


To the peals of minstrelsy : 


With such a weight of rest ! 


And many a gleam and sparkle came 




From the armor hung around. 


Yet st^ a tender crimson glow 


As it caught the glance of the toich's flame. 


Its cheeks' pure marble dyed — 


Or the hearth with pine boughs crowned. 


Twas but the light's faint streaming flow 




Through roses heaped beside. 


Why feU there silence on the chord 




Beneath the harper's hand ? 


I stooped — the smooth round arm was chill, 


And suddenly from that rich board 


The soft lips' breath was fled, 


Why rose the wassail baaid ? 



MISCELIANEOUS POEMS. 4S1 


The strings were hushed — the knights made 


0, death is mighty to make peace ; 


way 


Now bid his work be done ! 


For the queenly mother's tread, 


So many an inward strife shall cease — 


As up the hall, in dark array, 


Take, take these babes, my son ! " 


Two fair-haired boys she led. 






His eye was dimmed — the strong man siook 


She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, 


With feelings long suppressed ; 


And still before him stood ; 


Up in his arms the boys he took. 


Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 


And strained them to his breast. 


Flushed the proud warrior blood : 


And a shout from all in the royal hall 


And " Speak, my mother ! speak ! " he cried, 


Burst forth to hail the sight ; 


" "Wherefore this mourning vest ? 


And eyes were wet 'midst the brave that met 


And the clinging children by thy side, 


At the Kaiser's feast that night. 


In weeds of sadness dressed ? " 




*' Well may a mourning vest be mine, 




And theirs, my son, my son ! 


TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 


Look on the features of thy line 




In each fair little one ! 
Though grief a while within their eyes 


"Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la soDur de Tasae, 
quand il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amie un aiyl« 
eoutre I'injustice des princes.— Ses longues douleurs avaient 


Hath tamed the dancing glee, 
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 


presque egare sa raison; il ne lui restolt plus que son genie."— 
ConiNWE. 


Thy brother's children see ! 


She sat, where on each wind that sighed 




The citron's breath went by. 


" And where is he, thy brother — where ? 


While the red gold of eventide 


He in thy home that grew. 


Burned in th' Italian sky. 


And smiling, with his sunny hair, 


Her bower was one where daylight's close 


Ever to greet thee iiew ? 


Full oft sweet laughter found. 


How would his arms thy neck intwine, 


As thence the voice of childhood rose 


His fond lips press thy brow ! 


To the high vineyards round. 


My son ! 0, call these orphans thine ! — 




Thou hast no brother now ! 


But still and thoughtful at her knee 




Her children stood that hour. 


«• What ! from their gentle eyes doth nought 


Their bursts of song and dancing glee 


Speak of thy childhood's hours, 


Hushed as by words of power. 


And smite thee with a tender thought 


With bright fixed wondering eyes, that gaaed 


Of thy dead father's towers ? 


Up to their mother's face. 


Kind was thy boyish heart and true. 


With brows through parted ringlets raised. 


When reared together there, 


They stood in silent grace. 


Through the old woods like fawns ye flew — 




Where is thy brother — where ? 


While she — yet something o'er her look 




Of mournfulness was spread — 


" Wsll didst thou love him then, and he 


Forth from a poet's magic book 


Still at thy side was seen ! 


The glorious numbers read ; 


How is it that such things can be 


The proud undying lay, which poured 


As though they ne'er had been ? 


Its light on evil years ; 


Evil was this world's breath, which came 


His of the gifted pen and sword,* 


Between the good and brave ! 


The triumph, and the tears. 


Now must the tears of grief and shame 




Be offered to the grave. 


She read of fair Erminia's flight, 




Which Venice once might hear 


"And let them, let them there be poured ! 


'" 


Though all unfelt below — 
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored. 
Shall soften as they flow. 


1 It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italiu 
saying, that Tasso, with his sword and pen was superior U 
all men. 



Sung on her glittering seas at night 

By many a gondolier : 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapped the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, 

Young holy hearts were stirred ; 
And the meek tears of woman flowed 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leal. 

Came sweet, each pause between. 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turned — a way-worn man, 

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 
But drops which would not stay for pride 

From that dark eye gushed free, 
As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 

" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed ! — and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have played ; 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew 

From wreaths which thou hast made ; 
"We have knelt down and said one grayer, 

And sung one vesper strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again ! 

" Life hath been heavy on my head — 

I come a stricken deer. 
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck and wept. 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! — and who was he. 

The weary one, th' unknown. 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine, 

He of the sword and pen ! 



ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION. 

" Yet speak to me ! I have outwatehed the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee. 
Speak to me I I Iiave wandered o'er the earth. 
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me 
This once — once more I " Manfbsb 

" Thou'rt gone ! — thou'rt slumbering iow, 

With the sounding seas above thee : 
It is but a restless woe, 

But a haunting dream, to love thee ! 
Thrice the glad swan has sung 

To greet the spring-time hours, 
Since thine oar at parting flung 
The white spray up in showers. 
There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth anj 

round thy home ; 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou'rt 
surely of them — come ! " 

'Twas Ulla's voice ! Alone she stood 

In the Iceland summer night, 
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood 

From a dark rock's beetling height. 

" I know thou hast thy bed 

Where the seaweed's coil hath bound thee ; 
The storm sweeps o'er thy head. 

But the depths are hushed around thee. 
What wind shall point the way 

To the chambers where thou'rt lying ? 
Come to me thence, and say 
If thou thought' st on me in dying ? 
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless 

lip and cheek. 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou'rt 
surely of them — speak ! " 

She listened — 'twas the wind's low moan, 

'Twas the ripple of the wave, 
'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone 

As it startled from its cave. 

" I know each fearful spell 

Of the ancient Runic lay, 
Whose muttered words compel 

The tempest to obey. 
But I adjure not thee 

By magic sign or song ; 
My voice shall stir the sea 

By love — the deep, the strong ! 
By the might of woman's tears, by the passion 

of her sighs, 
Cnme to me from the ocean's dead ! — by thfl 
vows we pledged, arise ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



48» 



Again she gazed with an eager glance, 
Wandering and -wildly bright ; — 

She saw but the sparkling -waters dance 
To ihe arro-wy northern light. 

" By the slo-w and struggling death 
Of hope that loathed to part, 
By the fierce and withering breath 

Of despair on youth's high heart — 
By the weight of gloom which clings 

To the mantle of the night, 
By the heavy dawn which brings 
Nought lovely to the sight — 
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 

of grief and fear, 
Come to me from the ocean's dead ! Awake, 
arise, appear ! " 

Was it her yearning spirit's dreain ? 

Or did a pale form rise. 
And o'er the hushed wave glide and gleam, 

With bright, still, mournful eyes ? 

•♦ ilave the depths heard ? They have ! 
My voice prevails : thou'rt there, 
Dim from thy watery grave — 

O thou that wert so fair ! 
Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear -with love ; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 
While the billow rolls above ! 
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the 

bright ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead. Stay for 
me, stay ! — I come ! " 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main ; 
And the wave shut o'er that -wild heart's 
woe — 

Shut, and grew still again. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Thine is & strain to read among the hills, 

The old and full of voices — by the source 
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence 
fills 
The solitude with sound ; for in its course 
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their 
Keart. 

62 



Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, 
Where vernal winds each tree's low tones 
awaken. 
And bud and bell with changes mark the 
hours. 
There let thy thoughts be with me, whUe the 

day 
Sinks -with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 
When night hath hushed the woods with all 

their birds, 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay -were 

sweet 
As antique music, linked with household 

words ; 
While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might 

move, 
And the raised eye of childhood shine in lovo. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial ground, 

Thy verse hath power that brightly might dif- 
fuse 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; 

From its own glow of hope and courage high, 

And steadftst faith's -victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy ! — thou art e'en as ona 

Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 

Sees where the springs of li-ving waters lie: 
Unseen a while they sleep — tiU, touched by 

thee, 
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad 
wanderer free. 



A MONARCH'S DEATH BED. 

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assatisinatec 
by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, vrtt 
left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last in» 
ments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing 1 

A MONARCH on his death bed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume. 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray. 

Through his proud chamber's gloom ? 
He lay upon a greensward bed. 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 



.iSO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Had he then fallen as warriors fall, 

Where spear strikes fire with spear ? 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier ? 
Not 60 — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of cheer. 

And princely vassals nigh ? 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye ? 
A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid. 
And, shrLokingnot for woman's dread. 

The face of death surveyed. 

Alone she sat : from hill and wood 

Bed sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gushed the fount of noble blood — 

Treason its worst had done. 
With her long hair she vainly pressed 

The wounds, to stanch their tide — 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Lnperial Albert died ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. 

"TTn^e in tohta gloria." — Feibabch. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone. 
Of sainted genius called too soon away. 

Of light from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day — 

How shall our griaf, if mournful these things 
be. 

Flow forth, O thou of many gifts ! for thee ? 

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard ? 

And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 

Have we not felt its breath in every word 

Wont from thy lip as Hermon's dew to 

shower ? 

Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have 

burned — 
Of heaven they were, and thither have returned. 

How shall we mourn thee ? With a lofty trust. 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance 
of love, 



And yet can weep ! — for nature thus deplores 
The friend that leaves us, though for happiel 
shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture, be allowed ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bowed. 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had ■wo» 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power en 
dowed 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 
Yet one more image on the heart bestowed 

To dwell there, beautiful in hohi^ess ! 
Thine, Heber, thine ! whose DLtmory from th 

dead 
Shines as the star which to tM Savior led ! 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

" Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child ? 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall — 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams. 
And the sunshine of picture forever streams." 

" O, green is the turf where my brothers play. 
Through the long bright hours of the sununo 

day; 
They find the red cup moss where they climbs 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thym» 
And the rocks where the heath flower bloon 

they know — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go ! " 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell — 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovGst wel 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon. 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune. 
And the silvery wood note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard 

*• O, my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hUls far more sweet than aU ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee : 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go ! " 

" Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



491 



rhou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy ! no 

more, 
Nor hear the song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ! 
But I know that my brothers are there at play — 
I knew they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me go ! " 

"Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
rhey have left the fern by the spring's green 

side. 
And the streams where the fairy barks were 

tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot. 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

*' Are they gone, all gone, frr^m the sunny hill ? 
But the bii'd and the blue fl^ rove o'er it still ; 
And the red deer bound in their gladness 

free. 
And the heath is bent by tb« singing bee. 
And the waters leap, and thr fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! O, let me (jo ! " 



INVOCATION. 

*I called on dreams and visions «) disclose 
Tliat which is veiled from wa> ng thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer." Wokdswobth. 

Answer me, burning s*"ars of night ! 

Where is the spirit p'one. 
That past the reach of human sight 

As a swift breeze ha»"h flown ? 
And the stars answered me — "We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the never-dyip<? soul. 

Ask that which can-iot die." 

O many-toned and cb^inless wind ! 

Thou art a wander«»r free ; 
Tell me if thou its pJ'ice canst find 

Far over mount a"d sea ? 
And the wind murinured in reply — 

" The blue deep 1 have crossed, 
And met its bar'is «ind billows high, 

But not vLaf Ibou hast lost." 



Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run i 
The bright clouds apswered — "We depart 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart. 

For that which cannot di«» 

Speak then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered — "Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil 

Thine is, to trust in Heaven." 



KORNER AND HIS SISTER. 

["Charles Theodore Kiirner, the celebrated young Ger- 
man poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a do* 
tachment of French troops on the 20th of August, 1813, a 
few hours after the composition of his popular piece, Thi 
Sword Song. He was buried at the village of Wbbbelin in 
Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which h« 
had frequently deposited verses composed by him while 
campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his 
memory is of cast iron ; and the upper part is wrought into 
a lyre and sword, a favorite emblem of Kbmer's, from 
which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave 
of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief foi 
hia loss, having only survived him long enough to complete 
his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the 
gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines: — 

' Vergiss die treuen TOdten nicht' 
(Forget not the faithful dead.)" 

— See Richardson's Translation of KSi-ner's Life and 
Works, and Dowke's Letters from Mecklenhurg.] 

Green wave the oak forever o'er thy rest, 
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was poured. 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 

Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father's 
hand 
Here shall the child of after years be led. 
With his wreath oifering silently to stand 
In the hushed presence of the glorioui 
dead — •* 

Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
' With freedom and with God. 



\ 



z'' 



The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors 
bore thee, 
AJid with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they veiled their drooping banners 
o'er thee ; 
A.nd the deep guns with rolling peal gave token 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

7%ou nast a hero's tomb : a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying — 

The gentle girl that bowed her fair young head 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave ! 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others ; — but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only 
spot, 
She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were. 

And in your early deaths divided not. 
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy, — what hath 
she? 
Her ovm blessed place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 

The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, 
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye 
played, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue 
sky. 
Ye were but two — and when that spirit passed, 
Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! She lingered but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast — 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her ere she went to rest. 

Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — 
It answered hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had 
fled; 
What then was left for her, the faithful hearted ? 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the 
dead ! 
BoMy she perished : be the Flower deplored 
Here with the Lyre and Sword ! 

Save ye not met ere now ? — so let those trust 
That meet for moments but to part for years — 

rhat weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 
dust — 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 



Brother ! sweet sister ! peace around ye dweU 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! • 



THE DEATH DAY OF KORNER.' 

A SONG for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride.' 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high — 
An eagle stooping from clouds of mom, 

Only to die. 

He met with the lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrilled to the name of his God alone 

And his fatherland. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath 
met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight. 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watchfire's light. 



1 The following lines, addressed to the author of the 
above, by the venerable father of KBrner, who, with the 
mother, survived the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here 
commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German 
reader : — 

" Wohllaut tont aus der Feme von freundlichen Luften getragen, 

Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, 

Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaf^ 

Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn. 

Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling 

Hingezogeu gefuhlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn. 

Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nieht fremd 

istl 
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand." 

Theodob Kobnbb's Vatbe. 

2 On reading part of a letter from KBmer's father, ad- 
dressed to Mr. Richardson, the translator of his works, in 
which he speaks of" The death day of his son." 

s See The Sword Scr.g, composed on the morning of bit 
death 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



49a 



And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

'Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's breast, 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful arfd bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride ! 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 

" I come 
To this tweet place for quiet Every tree, 
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend." — Barky Coeitwall. 

There were thick leaves above me and around. 

And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's 
sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 

As of soft showers on water ; dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 
rhey seemed but pictured glooms ; a hidden 

rill 
Made music such as haunts us in a dream, 
Under the fern tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed. 

Came pouring through the woven beech 
boughs down, 
And steeped the magic page wherein I read 

Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
A tale of Palestine.' Meanwhile the bee 

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours — 

A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
Blue skies, and amber sunshine : brightly free, 
On filmy wings, the purple dragon fly 
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by : 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 

Where sat the lone wood pigeon. 

But ere long, 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell 

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew 
strong 
On my chained soul. 'Twas not the leaves I 

heard : 
A Syrian wind the lion banner stirred, 

1 The Talisman — Tales of the Crusaders. 



Through its proud floating folds. 'Twas not th« 

brook 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen ; 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are 

high. 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay 

clear, 
Shadowed by graceful palm trees. Then the 

shout 
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out, 
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose gloridua 

hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of 

blue : 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 

strings. 
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings. 
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track, 
What called me from its flood of glory back ? 
A voice of happy childhood ! — and they passed. 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast. 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone, 
My heart so leaped to that sweet laughter'! 

tone. 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. 

" His very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possessed 
With visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find : 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more." 



The hollow dash of waves ! — the ceaseless 

roar ! — 
Silence, ye billows ! — vex my soul no more. 
There's a spring in the woods b"" -ry sunny 

home, 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 
O, the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear I 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it 

throws 
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughst 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 



494 



MISCELLAlSrEOUS POEMS'j 



lliey hfiunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's 

flow, 
I thirsi, for its rills like a wounded roe ! 

Be still, thou sea bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round ? 
Know ye it, brethren ! where bowered it lies 
Under the purple of southern skies ? 
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 
In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours. 
And the firefly's glance through the darkening 

shades. 
Like shooting stars in the forest glades, 
Ajid the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall— 
Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them 

all? 

The heavy-rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! — 
Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou 
blast! 

O, the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 

The notes of the singing cicala's mirth. 

The murmurs that livein the mountain pines, 

The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 

The wings flitting home through the crimson 

glow 
That steeps the wood when the sun is low, 
The voice of the night bird, that sends a thrill 
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are 

still — 
I hear them ! — around me they rise, they swell, 
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell — 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring 

time. 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high — away, away ! 
Shroud my green land no more, thou bUnding 



spray 



It is there ! — down the mountains I see the 

sweep 
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 
With the burden and glory of flowers that they 

bear 
FlcSating upborne on the blue summer air. 
And the light pouring through them in tender 

gleams, 
And tho flashing forth of a thousand streams. 



Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go 

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtlM 

blow. 
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows 

rest, 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,' 
To the rocks that resound to the water's 

play— • 

I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — give 

way ! 

Give way ! — the booming surge, the tempest'a 

roar. 
The sea bird's wail shall vex my soul no more. 



THE EFFIGIES. 

" Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mans : 
Er falle gleich, so prciset ihn das Lied» 
AUein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der uberbliebnen, der rerlass^nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nachwelt." Goethe. 

Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb, 

With shield and crested head, 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stained window shed ; * 

The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear, 

Flung out o'er many a fight ; 
A war cry ringing far and clear. 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 

Chief ! were not these things thine ? 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood- red wine was poured , 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard : 
Surely these things were all thine own — 

So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid. 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes airayed ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 49fl 


What was thy tale ? gentle mate 


Not as the flying come, 


Of him, the bold and free, 


In silence and in fear ; — 


Bound unto his victorious fate, 


They shook the depths of the desert gloom 


What bard hath sung of theef 


With their hymns of lofty cheer. 


He wooed a bright and burning star — 


Amidst the storm they sang, 


Thine was the void, the gloom, 


And the stars heard and the sea , 


The straining e\& that followed far 


And the sounding aisles of the dim woods ranf 


His fast-receding plume ; 


To the anthem of the free ! 


The heart-sick listening while his steed 




Sent echoes on the breeze ; 


The ocean eagle soared 


The pang — but when did Fame take heed 


From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 


Of griefs obscure as these ? 


And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 




This was their welcome home ! 


Thy silent and secluded hours 




Through many a lonely day 


There were men with hoary hair 


While bending o'er thy broidered flowers, 


Amidst that pilgrim band ; — 


With spirits far away ; 


Why had the]/ come to wither there, 


Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 


Away from their childhood's land ' 


Who fought on Syrian plains. 




Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 


There was woman's fearless eye, 


These fill no minstrel strains. 


Lit by her deep love's truth ; 




There was manhood's brow, serenely high 


k. still, sad life was thine ! — long years 


And the fiery heart of youth. 


With tasks unguerdoned fraught — 




Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 


What sought they thus afar ? 


Vigils of anxious thought ; 


Bright jewels of the mine ? 


Prayer at the cross in fervor poured, 


The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ' - 


Alms to the pilgrim given — 


They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 


0, happy, happier than thy lord, 




In that lone path to heaven ! 


Ay, call it holy ground. 




The soil where first they trod ; 




They have left unstained what there tihen 




found — 




Freedom to worship God. 


THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 




FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. 




• Liook now abroad ! Another race has filled 




Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; 


THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 


The laud is fuU of harvests and green meads." 




Bbtant. 


" And dpit, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 




The breaking waves dashed high 


Aside forever ; — it may be a sound — 


On a stern and rock- bound coast, 


A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring— 




A flower — a leaf— the ocean — which may wound — 


And the woods against a stormy f,ky 


Striking th' electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound." 


Their giant branches tossed ; 


Childk Hakold 


And the heavy night hung dark 


The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds t» 


The hills and waters o'er, 


waken 


When a band of exiles moored their bark 


Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore. 


On the wild New England shore. 


And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 




From some bright former state, our own no 


Not as the conqueror comes. 


more; 


They, the true-hearted, came ; 


Is not this all a mystery ? Who shall say 


Not with the roll of the stirring drums^ 


Whence are those thoughts, and whither tend» 


And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 


their way ? 



«9S 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The sudden images of vanished things, 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by ; 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance, 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance, 
Full of sweet meanings now from this world 
floAvn ; 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear — 

These are night's mysteries — who shall make 
them clear ? 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast. 

In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow 
fall? 

Why shakes the spirit thus ? 'Tis mystery all ! 

Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 

Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think 
Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 

Fearfully, wondrously our souls are made — 

Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 

Yet undismayed — for do they not reveA 
Th' immortal being with our dust int-mned ? — 

So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 

Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 



THE DEPARTED. 

" Thou Shalt lie down 
■With pafriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise — the good, 
l"»ir forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
A)l in one mighty sepulchre." Betant. 

And shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore ? — 



Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warior kings, whose banner 

Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not» 

From the feast of victory. 

And the seers who sat of yore 

By Orient palm or wave. 
They have passed with all their starry lore — 

Can ye stiU fear the grave ? 

We fear ! we fear ! The sunshine 

Is joyous to behold. 
And we reck not of the buried kings, 

Nor the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink ! The bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts burn, 

They have left the sun, and the voice of praisa 
For the land whence none return. 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Is the verse that cannot die, 
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, 

From the love of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 

Of the earth's departed flowers. 
And the masters of the mighty song, 

In their far and fadeless bowers ? 

Those songs are high and holy, 

But they vanquish not our fear : 
Not from our path those flowers are gone— 

We fain would linger here ! 

Linger then yet a while. 

As the last leaves on the bough ! — 
Ye have love(i the light of many a smile 

That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walks, that now are still ; 

There are seats left void in your earthly homei 
Which none again may fill. 

Soft eyes are seen no more. 

That made spring time in your heart ; 
Kindred and friends are gone before — 

And ye still fear to part ? 

We fear not now, we fear not ! 

Though the way through darkness ben^ ; 



Our souls are strong to follow them. 
Our own familiar friends ! 



THE PALM TREE.' 

It waved not throagh, an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fanned by Southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas ; 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm tree grew 
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould, 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss beds at its feet. 

Strange looked it there ! The willow streamed 

Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 

The lime bough lured the honey bep 

To murmur by the desert's tree, 

And showers of snowy roses made » 

A. lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; 
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft color flung ; 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng. 
Seemed reckless all of dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been. 
Of crested brow and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. 
He passed the pale- green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke — 
The silence of his soul it broke ! 
It whispered of his own bright isle, 
That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his 
poem oiLes Jardins. 

63 



Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea- wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar — 
The conch note heard along the shore ; 
All through his wakening bosom swept — 
He clasped his country's tree, and wept ! 

O, scorn him not ! The strength whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills. 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gushed that childlike tear ! 



THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. 

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY's. 

Thou sleepest — but when wilt thou wake, fail 

child ? 
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild ? 
When the lark's Mdng mounts with the breezf 

of morn ? 
When the first rich breath of the rose is bom ? — 
Lovely thou sleepest ! yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes ; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see — 
When will the hour of thy rising be ? 

Not when the fawn wakes — not when th" 

lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. 
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet 
The hair, shedding gleams fi'om thy pale brow 

yet; 
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath pressed 
Thy meek- dropped eyelids and quiet breast ; 
And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, 
Shall color all blossoms, fair child ! but thee. 

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one ! — that thou 

shouldst die, 
And life be left to the butterfly ! * 
Thou'rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the 

bough ; 
O for the world where thy home is now ! 
How may we love but in doubt and fear, 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here ; 

2 A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on 
the monumeuL 



How should e'en joy but a trembler b(» 
Beautifiil dust ! when we look on thee 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A. joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam. 
And gladdened the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green 

ai;cades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy 

glow 
Like fireflies glance to the pools below. 

I looked on the mountains — a vapor lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou breakest forth, and the mist became 
A. crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had Avrapped the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art. 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou takest through the dim church aisle thy 

way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to-day. 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou tumest not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatter' St its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

•Bunbeam of summer ! O, what is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 
One thing is like thee to mortals given. 
The faith touching all thirgs with hues of 
heaven ! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 

Thou gireet me flowers, thou givest me songs ; bring Iwck 
The love that I have lost I 

What wakest thou, Spring ? Sweet voices in 
the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been 
mute : 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless 
flute. 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or 
glee, 

E'en as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee. Spring ! — the joyous 
leaves. 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
glade. 
Where each young spray a rosy fiush receives, 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whis- 
pery shade. 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they too hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst theii 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of 
flowers ! 
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And pencilling the wood anemone : 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awakest *■ .^ m the heart, O Spring ' 
The human heart, with all its dreams and 
sighs ? 
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing. 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er 
thou art — 

What -wakest thou in the heart ? 

Too much, O, there too much ! We know not 
well 
Wherefore it sliould be thus, yet roused by 
thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



499 



Whut fond, strange yearnings, from tlie soul's 
deep cr;ll, 
Gusli for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone. 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that nevermore. 

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet. 
Past words of welcome to our household door. 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted 
feet — 
Spring ! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering 
trees. 

Why, why reviv'st thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they 
back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and li^-ing 
blooms ? 
0, is it not, that from thine earthly track 
Hope to thy world may look beyond the 
tombs ? 
Yes, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 

The hills all glowed with a festive light, 

For the royal city rejoiced by night : 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and 

tree. 
Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 
Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire ; 
Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 
And the outline of many a dome on high 
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark 



I passed through the streets. There were 

throngs on throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled 

songs ; 
There was music forth from each palace borne — 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn ; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang, 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 
Eich and victorious was every tone. 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? 
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain ! 
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell — 
Srief in the homes they have left must dwell : 



Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 
And bowing the beauty of woman's head ! 
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one ten> 

der moan 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone ? 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps 

glare ! 
I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd — 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 
Mightj' it rolled on the winds afar. 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car — 
Through torches and streamers its flood swept 

by: 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants — tuia. 
If its deep story thy heart would learn ! 
Ever too bright is that outward show, 
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. 
But lift the proud mantle Avhich hides from thy 

view 
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad 

and true ; 
Nor fear to survej' what its folds conceal • 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 

" There blend the ties that strengthen 
Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief." 

Bernakd Baki'Oj 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 

On the banks of moss where thy childhooa 

played. 
By the household tree through which thine ey« 
First looked in love to the summer sky, 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell. 
Holy and precious — O, guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream, 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes. 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 



By the gathering round the winter hearth, 

When twilight called unto household mirth, 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told, 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer and the kind " Good 

night ! " 
3y the smiling eye, and the loving tone. 
Over thy life has the speU been thrown. 

And bleiss that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away — 
When the sullying breath of the world would 

"ome 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home — 
Think thou again of the woody glade. 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made — 
Think of the tree at thy father's door. 
And the kindly spell shall have power once 

more ! 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 

" Roma, Roma, Roma I 
Non e piu come era prima." 

Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Tnou s.itt,'st a qu^ei^. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

Bowed at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 

Never shall rise : 
What hast thou left thee now ? — 

Thou hast thy skies ! 



Blue, deeply blue, they are, 

Gloriously bright ! 
Veiling thy wastes afar 

With colored light. 

Thou hast the sunset's glow, 

Rome ! for thy dower, 
Flushing tall cypress bough, 

Temple and tower ! 

And all sweet sounds are thine, 

Lovely to hear. 
While night, o'er tomb and shrine. 

Rests darkly clear. 

Many a solemn hymn, 

By starlight sung. 
Sweeps through the arches dim 

Thy wrecks among. 

Many a flute's low swell 

On thy soft air 
Lingers and loves to dwell 

With summer there. 

Thou hast the south' s rich gift 

Of sudden song — 
A charmed fountain, swift, 

Joyous and strong. 

Thou hast fair forms that more 

With queenly tread ; 
Thou hast proud fanes above 

Thy mighty dead. 

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 

A mournful mien : — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 



THE DISTANT SHIP. 

The sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breast 

Shoots like a glancing star. 
While the red radiance of the west 

Spreads kindling fast and far ; 
And yet that splendor wins thee riot — 

Thy still and thoughtful eye 
Dwells but on one dark distant spot 

Of all the main and sky. 

Look round thee ! O'er the slumbering dee| 
A solemn glory broods ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



501 



A fire hath touched the beacon steep, 

And all the golden woods ; 
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 

Burn with the amber light ! — 
What spell from that rich pageantry 

Chains down thy gazing sight ? 

A softening thought of human cares, 

A feeling linked to earth ! 
Is not yon speck a bark which bears 

The loved of many a hearth ? 
O, do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear 

Crowd her frail world even now, 
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear 

Follow her venturous prow ? 

Bright are the floating clouds above. 

The glittering seas below ; 
But we are bound by cords of love 

To kindred weal and woe. 
Fherefore, amidst this wide array 

Of glorious things and fair. 
My soul is on that bark's lone way — 

For human hearts are there. 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

BiKDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing ! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? 
« We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
From the palms that wave through the Indian 

sky, ■ 
From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby. 

" We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 

Bilent they lie with the deserts round ! 

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath 

rolled 
All dark with the warrior blood of old ; 
And each worn wing hath regained its home, 
Under peasant's roof trees or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? 
" We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of lifedrops spilt — 
Nought looks the same save the nest we built ! " 

joyous birds ! it hath still been so : 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet He still and deep. 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep : 



Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
Since last we parted from that sweet spot ? 

" A change we have found there — and many « 

change ! 
Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ! 
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 
And the young that were have a brow of care, 
And the place is hushed where the children 

played — 
Nought looks the same save the nest we made ! " 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth. 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair ? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed — 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD 

They grew in beauty side by side. 
They iilled one home with glee ; 

Their graves are severed far and wide. 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow : 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now i 

One, 'midst the forest of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 

He Ues where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none < 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 

She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree : 



Bft2 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth ! ■ 

Alas, for love ! if thou wert all, 
And nought beyond, O Earth ! 



MOZART'S REQUIEM. 



Within this clay hath been the o'ermasterinf 
flame ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent. 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind. 

Which none may stay or bind. 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ^ 

I strive with yearnings vain 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 



[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of 
«niarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, 
called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, 
in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. 
The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately 
seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate ; 
and the nervous anxiety with which he labored to fulfil the 
task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died 
within a few days after completing this magnificent piece 
of music, which was performed at his interment.] 

" These birds of paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion." 

PROPHKcr OF Dante. 

A KEauiEM ! — and for whom ? 

For beauty in its bloom ? 
For valor fallen — a broken rose or sword ? 

A dirge for king or chief, 

With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? 

Not so — it is not so ! 

The warning voice I know. 
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 

A solemn funeral air 

It called me to prepare. 
And my heart answered secretly — My own ! 

One more then, one more strain. 

In links of joy and pain, 
Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay — the last of all ! 

The last ! — and I must go 

From this bright world below, 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! 

Must leave its festal skies, 

With all their melodies, 
That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 

Yet have I known it long : 
Too restless and too strong 



Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erfiow my breast; 

Something far more di-sine 

Than may on earth be mine 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown ? 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire. 

And this unsettled fire 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

One more then, one more strain ; 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent tliought, 

With fear, hope, trembhng, fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA.> 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ? 

Temple and tower have mouldered, 
Empires from earth have passed, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile imago, 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials reared 

By conquerors of mankind. 

1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infon 
clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering' of HercuU 
neum. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 602 


Babe ! wert thou brightly Blumbering 


Around the palms, and o'er the streams. 


Upon thy mother's breast 


And on the shepherd's head ; 


When suddenly the fiery tomb 


Be near, through life and death, 


Shut round each gentle guest ? 


As in that holiest night 




Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, 


A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 


Cl clear and shining light ! 


Fair babe and loving heart ! 




One moment of a thousand pangs — 


star ! which led to Him whose love 


Yet better than to part ! 


Brought down man's ransom free ; 




Where art thou ? — 'Midst the hosts above 


Haply of that fond bosom 


May we still gaze on thee ? 


On ashes here impressed, 


In heaven thou art not set, 


Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 


Thy rays earth might not dim — 


Whereon a hope might rest. 


Send them to guide us yet. 




star which led to Him ! 


Perchance all vainly lavished 




Its other love had been ; 




And where it trusted, nought remained 




But thorns on which to lean. 


A FATHER READING THE BIBLE, 


Far better, then, to perish. 


'TwAs early day, and sunlight streamed 


Thy form within its clasp, 


Soft through a quiet room. 


Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 


That hushed, but not forsaken seemed. 


From that impassioned grasp. 


Still, but with nought of gloom„ 




For there, serene in happy age 


O, I could pass all relics 


Whose hope is from above. 


liCft by the pomps of old. 


A father communed with the page 


To gaze on this rude monument 


Of Heaven's recorded love. 


Cast in affection's mould. 






Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 


Love ! human love ! what art thou ? 


On his gray holy hair. 


Thy print upon the dust 


And touched the page with tenderest light, 


Outlives the cities of renown 


As if its shrine were there ! 


Wherein the mighty trust ! 


But O, that patriarch's aspect shone 




With something lovelier far — 


*mmortal, 0, immortal 


A radiance all the spirit's own. 


Thou art, whose earthly glow 


Caught not from sun or star. 


Hath given these ashes holiness — 




It must, it must be so ! 


Some word of life e'en then had met 




His calm, benignant eye ; 




Some ancient promise, breathing yet ^ 




Of immortaUty ! 


CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 




Of quenchless faith survives : 


LOVELY voices of the sky. 


While every feature said — "J know 


That hj-mned the Savior's birth ! 


That my Redeemer lives ! " 


Axe ye not singing still on high, 




Ye that sang "Peace on earth" ? 


And silent stood his children by, 


To us yet speak the strains 


Hushing their very breath, 


Wherewith, in days gone by, 


Before the solemn sanctity 


Ye blessed the Syrian swains. 


Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 


voices of the sky ! 


Silent — yet did not each young breast 




With love and reverence melt ? 


clear and shining light ! whose beams 


0, blest be those fair girls, and blest 


That hour heaven's glory shed 

1 

1 


That home where God is felt I 



|d4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 


THK MEETING OF THE BROTHERS,' 


All melted with those tears, 




The faces of the holy dead 


" His early days 

Were with him in his heart" 'Wokdswoeth. 


Rose as in vanished years ; 
The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest, 


The voices df two forest boys, 


Lifted its voice in each full breast ! 


In years when hearts intwine, 




Had filled with childhood's merry noise 


0, was it then a time to die ? 


A valley of the Rhine : 


It was ! — that not in vain 


To rock and stream that sound was known, 


The soul of childhood's purity 


Gladsome as hunter's bugle tone. 


And peace ncight turn again. 




A ball swept forth — 'twas guided well-- 


The sunny laughter of their eyes 


Heart unto heart those brothers fell ! 


There had each vineyard seen ; 




Up every cliff whence eagles rise 


Happy, yes, happy thus to go ! 


Their bounding step had been ; 


Bearing from earth away 


Ay ! their bright youth a glory threw 


Affections, gifted ne'er to know 


O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 


A shadow — a decay — 




A passing touch of change or chill, 


But this, as dayspring's flush, was brief 


A breath of aught whose breath can kill 


As early bloom or dew ; 




Alas ! 'tis but the withered leaf 


And they, between whose severed souls, 


That wears th' enduring hue ! 


Once in close union tied. 


Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore 


A gulf is set, a current rolls 


Might girdle in their world no more. 


Forever to divide ; 




Well may they envy such a lot 


For now on manhood's verge they stood, 


Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not. 


And heard life's thrilling call, 




As if a silver clarion wooed 




To some high festival ; 




And parted as young brothers part, 


\ 


With love in each unsullied heart. 


THE LAST WISH. 


They parted. Soon the paths divide 


Go to the forest shade, 


Wherein our steps were one. 


Seek thou the well-known glade. 


Like river branches, far and wide. 


Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 


Dissevering as they run ; 


Gleaming through moss tufts deep, 


And making strangers in their course 


Like dark eyes filled with sleep, 


Of waves that had the same bright source. 


And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 


Met they no more ? Once more they met. 


Bring me their buds, to shed 


Those kindred hearts and true ! 


Around my dying bed 


'Twas on a field of death, where yet 


A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 


The battle thunders flew. 


For I, in sooth, depart 


Though the fierce day was well nigh past. 


With a reluctant heart. 


And the red sunset smiled its last. 


That fain would linger where the bright sua 


But as the combat closed, they found 


glows. 


For tender thoughts a space, 
And e'en upon that bloody ground 

Room for one bright embrace, 
And poured forth on each other's neck 
Such tears as warriors need not check. 


Fain would I stay with thee ! — 
Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me stiU the gifts of happier hours I 
Go where the fountain's breast 
Catches, in glassy test. 


i For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see 


The dim green light that pours through laurei 


(' Uermite en Jtalie. 


bowers. 




V I know how softly bright, 
Steeped in that tender light, 

the water lilies tremble there e'en now ; 
Go to the pure stream's edge, 
And from its whispering sedge 

Dring me those flowers to cool my fevered brow ! 

Then, as in Hope's young days. 

Track thou the antique maze 
l)f the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows. 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree — 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honeyed lime above : 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first revealed our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood lanes we passed. 
While dews were glancing to the glowworm's 
spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shaU their odor soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

s 

And O, if thou wouldst ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace — 

'Tis that some thought of me, 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(O, break not thou the spell !) 
Ill tJie deep wood and by the fountain side ; 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Rove w]\ere we two have roved, 
Poigetting her that in her spring time died ! 



FAIRY FAVORS. 

Give me but 

Something whereunto I may bind my heut ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. 

WouLDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom t 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy 

tomb ? 
Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink ! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, 
When the young all scattered like rose leaves lie 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
K the loved had left me, one by one ? 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless. 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ! 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell^ 
Over the mighty in air that dwell ? 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep ? 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at my coming, then 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ? 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale i 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts ol 

those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose i 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charmed to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow : 
Look on its flushing or fading hue. 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 

Keep, keep the gem, that I stiU may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but poured oi 

dust! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place, 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — 
That glory would pass could I look on guile f 

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, 
Favored of spirits ! poured forth on thee ? 
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and nu'aei 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 



54 



tu 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest — 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

O, give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 
But a human heart where my own may lean ! 



A friend, one tender and faithful frienO, 
Whose thoughts' free current with mm* TUMf 

blend ; 
And, leaving not either on earth alone, 
Eid the bright, calm close of our lives \/* aaal 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS; 

AND OTHEE, POEMS. 

They tell but dreams — a lonely spirit's dreams ; 
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery 
Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 
An aimless thought of home ; as in the song 
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dvi^ella 
A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, 
And living streams — far off! 



A SI /KIT'S RETURN. 

" This is to be a mortal, 
Aal (eek the things beyond mortality I " Manfbed. 

ran voice prevails — dear friend, my gentle 

friend ! 
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed ; 
Aud though thy soft eye mournfully •will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed 
Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must 

close 
Forevermore above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where aU strange wandering 

sound 
Is mingled into harmony profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the 

wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined. 
The trembling reeds and f-Duntains. Our own 

dell, 
WiVn its green dimness ard ^olian breath, 
BobU suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Hear me in tenderness axid silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal 

morn — 
I would thou hadst ! - for then my heart on 

thine 
Had poured a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 



It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harpstrings broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest bird 'midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my home 
Passed one by one, and melody and mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In aU wild scenes with thrUling miirmura 

fraught. 
In every stiU small voice and sound of power. 
And flute note of the wind through cave and 

bower, 
A perilous delight ! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre. 
But ministared to that strange inbor-n fire. 

'Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, 
In noontide hours or golden summer eves, 
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen 
Thou curtained realm of spirits ! — thus my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



50\i 



A. gift hath severed me from human ties, 
A ijower is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Vnich never may return : their chords are 

broken. 
The music of another land hath spoken — 
No after sound is sweet ! This weary thirst ! 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
rhrough the young woods ? Thou dost ! And 

in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth. 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness ! Couldst 

thou know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours but wooes me to the dead ! 
The onl]/ beautiful that change no more — 
The only loved ! — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! The dead ! whom call we so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapped from us ! Away ! within me 

pent, 
That which is barred from its own element 
Still droops or struggles ! But the day will 

come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home ; 
And the stream , lingers 'midst the rocks, yet 

greets 
The sea at last ; and the winged flower seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not /, too, be. 
My spirit love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Yes ! by the power whose conquering anguish 

stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track. 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine 
Proved thee forever and forever mine ! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE.* 

" Courage was cast about her like a dress 
Of solemn comelinesg, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 
Did give her dangers grace." Donne. 

The war note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France ; 

It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 
ILnd the clash of the tourney's lance. 

1 Founded on an incident in the early French history. 



The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the 

night. 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay, 

On the old Provenqal shore. 
Many a Chatillon beneath. 
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armor wore ; 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and 

came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flamo 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of iV-ern forms couched in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly i^ce. 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career. 
And haughty their stillness looked and high. 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she prayed ; 
With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of 

love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above. 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the graT« 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave ; 
And her fragile frame, at every blast. 
That full of the savage war horn passed. 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
O, they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, 

Or the dust had stirred below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan : 
Is her lord returned with his conquering bands J 
No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! 

— "Hast thou boen on the field? — Art thoo 

come from the host ? " 

— " From the slaughter, lady ! — All, all is lost! 
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim fo^; 

And thy lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
" Thy lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader'i 

plume 
Was seen on the flight through tli' gathering 

gloom." 



510 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



— A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed : 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 
She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 
With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow 

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, 

And her young voice rose till the peasant 

shook 
At the thrilling tone and the falcon look : 
— «' Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 

dead. 
And fear not to say that their son hath fled ? 

— Away ! he is lying by lance and shield — 
foint me the path to his battle field ! " 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a 

chief ; 
The branches that rock to the tempest strife 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral march through the gloomy 

sky; 
The pathAvay is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong. 
And her soul as on SAvelhng seas upborne. 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reached the field of the warrior dead ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Ay ! but one word speaks of deeper woe ; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine 

poured, 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
And O, ye beloved of women, farewell ! 

Silently, with lips compressed. 
Pale hands clasped above her breast. 
Stately brow of anguish high, 
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye ; 
Silently, o'er that red plain. 
Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 



Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now 
Than the quivering, ere while, of an aspen bough. 
She searched into many an unclosed eye, 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky ; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done. 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled — lead 
on ! " 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red : 

O, swiftest there had the currents free 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed. 
And the broken shields were tossed, 
And the shivered lances crossed. 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last, vain 

stand ; 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped. 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, 
And the face — O, speak not of that dead face ! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe — 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death, 
Yet there came no sob with her strugghng 

breath ; 
And a proud smile shone e'er her pale despair, 
As she turned to his followers — " Your lord if 

there ! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest ! -* 
Bear him away with his sires to rest ! ' 

Another day, another night. 
And the sailor on the deep 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



51) 



Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 
From the lordly chapel sweep. 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

As if that rite were in terror done ; 

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling 

power, 
And ho knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, m fear ana woe, 
Through the aisle the mourners go ; 
With a hushed and stealthy tread, 
Bearing on the noble dead ; 
Sheathed in armor of the field — 
Only his wan face revealed, 
Whence the still and solemn gleam 
Doth a strange, sad contrast seem 
To the anxious eyes of that pale band. 
With torches wavering in every hand, 
For they dread each moment the shout of 

war, 
And the burst of the Moslem cimeter. 

Th3re is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, 

No brother of battle, no princely friend : 

No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry ; 

But 07ie free step, and one lofty heart, 

Bear through that scene to the last their part. 

She hath led the death train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning 

veil. 
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is lingering still. 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 
Anguish and triumph are met at strife. 
Rending the cords of her frail young life ; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. 
" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be. 
The world thou Icav'st has no place for me. 
the light goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender ! O, call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart — 
Well have we loved, let us both depart ! " — 
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay. 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 



The livi7iff cheek ! — O, it was not vain, 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like — a glorious biide ! 

Joy for the freed one ! — she might not stay 
When the crown had fallen from her life away j 
She might not linger — a weary thing, 
A dove with no home for its broken wing. 
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies. 
That know not its own land's melodies. 
From the long heart withering early gone , 
She hath lived — she hath loved — her tadt la 
done ! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 

" Tableau, ou I'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe union i* 
doutable de la mort et de la vie." — Madame ds Staki 

There was music on the midnight 

From a royal fane it rolled ; 
And a mighty bell, each pause between^ 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hushed the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high. 

The lonely bell — of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter grew their ti|ead, 

As it neared the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave, 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stone-like was its rest ! 



512 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


But a peal of lordly music 


There is music on the midnight — 


Shook e'en the dust below, 


A requiem sad and slow. 


When the burning gold of the diadem 


As the mourners through the sounding aisle 


Was set on her paUid brow ! 


In dark procession go ; 


Then died away that haughty sound ; 


And the ring of state, and the starry crown. 


And from the encircling band 


And all the rich array. 


Stepped prince and chief, 'midst the hush pro- 


Are borne to the house of silence down, 


found, 


With her, that queen of clav ! 


With homage to her hand. 






And tearlessly and firmly 


Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 


King Pedro led the train ; 


Over each martial frame. 


But his face was wrapped in his folding robe 


As one by one, to touch that hand, 


When they lowered the dust again. 


Noble and leader came ? 


'Tis hushed at last the tomb above — 


Was not the settled aspect fair ? 


Hymns die, aAd steps depart : 


Did not a queenly grace. 


Who called thee strong as Death, Love ? 


Under the parted ebon hair. 


Mightier thou wast and art. 


Sit on the pale still face ? 




Death ! Death ! canst tliou be lovely 




Unto the eye of life ? 




Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 


ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE 


With thy cold mien at strife ? 


VIRGIN. 


— It was a strange and fearful sight. 




" O sanctissima, O purissimal 


The crown upon that head. 


Dulcia Virgo Maria 1 


The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 


Mater amata, intemerata, 


All gathered round the dead ! 


Ora, ora pro nobis." 

SlCILIAlf MAKINKE'S HTIIN 


And beside her stood in silence 


In the deep hour of dreams. 


One with a brow as pale, 


Through the dark woods, and past the moaninjj 


And white lips rigidly compressed. 


sea, 


Lest the strong heart should fail : 


And by the starlight gleams. 


King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 


Mother of sorrows ! lo, I come to thee ! 


Watching the^omage done 




By the land's flower and chivalry 


Unto thy shrine I bear 


To her, his martyred one. 


Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to 
lie 
AH, aU unfolded there. 


But on the face he looked not 


Which once his star had been ; 


Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 


To every form his glance was turned 




Save of the breathless queen : 


For thou, that once didst move 


Though something, won from the grave's em- 


In thy stiU beauty through an early home — 


brace. 


Thou know'st the grief, the love, 


Of her beauty still was there, 


The fear of woman's soul — to thee I come ! 


Its hues were all of that shadowy place. 




It was not for him to bear. 


Many, and sad, and deep 




Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 


Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 


Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 


The tre anures of the earth. 


Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppressed I 


And the priceless love that poured those gifts. 




Alike of wasted worth ! 


There is a wandering bark 


The rites ars clossi — bear back the dead 


Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave : 


Unto the chamber deep ! 


0, let thy soft eye mark 


Lay down again the royal head, 


His course ! Be with him, holiest ! guide and 


Dust with the dust, to sleep ! 


save ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



513 



My soul is on that way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters 
dim ; 

Through the long weary day 
I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him — and me, too, aid ! 
O, 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er him is poured 
My being's hope — scarce leaving heaven a part ; 

Too feaz-fully adored, 
O, make not him the chastener of my heart ! 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 

Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 
rhis wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life, 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings : take back, take back 
thine OAvn ! 

Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave — 

Hope of the sailor's eye. 
And maiden's heart, bless'd m.other ! guide and 
save. 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

Feom the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreached by human 

thought. 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 
Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here of life and death ? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath. 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 
Answer, O, answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul that 

shone 

Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 

Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown 

Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ? 

Hear, hear, and answer me ! 

62 



Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting 

strife, 
Like a faint breeze : O, from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless 

Hfe! 

tJut once, 0, answer me 5 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush. 

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 

deep. 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness 

rush. 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep - 
Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer , 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them 

sweet ; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair — 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet « 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent : and the far-off sky. 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ' 
O, if thy buried love make no reply. 
What voice has earth ? Hear, pity, speak, mine 
own ! 

Answer me, answer me ! 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 

" For all his wildneaa and proud fantasies, 
I love him." Croly. 

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

chamois bounds. 
Thy heart is where the mountain fir shakes to 

the torrent sounds ; 
And where the snow peaks gleam like stars, 

through the stillness of the air, 
And where the Lau wine's ' peal is heard — hunt- 

er ! thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lov'st me well, dear friend ! but 

better, better far 
Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with 

rocks and storms at war ; 
In the green, sunny vales with me thy spirit 

would but pine — 
And yet I -will be thine, my love ! and yet I 

will be thine ! 

1 LauTBine, the avalandua 



fil4 



SONGS or THE AFFECTIONS. 



And I will not seek to woo thee down from 

those thy native heights, 
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of 

pastoral delights ; 
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is 

not as mine — 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I 

will be thine. 

And I wiU leave my blessed home, my father's 

joyous hearth, 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth. 
With all the kind and laughing eyes that in its 

firelight shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad 

free heart 
That I cast away for thee —for thee, all reckless 

as thou art ! 
With tremblings and with vigils lone I bind 

myself to dwell — 
Yet, yet I would not change that lot ; O, no ! I 

love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 
wild as thou, 

With that bright restlessness of eye, that tame- 
less fire of brow ! 

Mournful ! — but dearer far I call its mingled 
fear and pride. 

And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 
earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath. 
To watch through long, long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness — this doom I 

know is mine ; 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I 

will be thine ! 

Tl'.at I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er 

each danger past, 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win 

thee aid divine — 
For tliis I will be thine, my love '. for this I wiU 

be thine ! 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with my dead ; 
In the darkness of the forest boughs 

A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 

As by mighty wings upborne ; 
The mountain eagle hath not plumes 

So strong as love and scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave sod, 
By the white man's path deiiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have asked the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place 
Where the stately footsteps of the firee 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
" Go, bring us back thine own ! " 

And the streams from all the hunters' hills 
Rushed with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead. 
Where the arrows of my father's how 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings 

Forevermore behind : 
Unmingied with their household sotinds 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearthfires, 

I watched my child's decay, 
TJncheered I saw the spirit light 

From his young eyes fade away. 

1 An Indian, who had established himselt in a t: wnship^ 
of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced 
towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on th* 
death of his only child, gave up his farm soon aderwards, 
dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him tw» 
hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian liK 
dians. See Tudor^s Letters on the Eastern States of Am«r 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



51S 



When his head sank on my bosom, 
When the death sleep o'er him fell, 

Was there one to say, " A friend is near ! " 
There was none ! — pale race, farewell ! 

To the forests, to the cedars, 

To the warrior and his bow. 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee slumbering now ! 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 
I shall hear thee in the forest breeze, 

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son ! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead ; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, 

My fathers' path I tread. 



^ONG OF EMIGRATION. 

Thebe was heard a song on the chiming sea, 
A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 
Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there, 
Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 
Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new, 
It sang, while the bark through the surges 
flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of fareweU 
Told, by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

" Away, away o'er the foaming main ! " 
This was the free and the joyous strain, 
" There are clearer skies than ours, afar. 
We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath 

pressed. 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave 

guest." 

" But, alas ! that we should go," 
Sang the farewell voices then, 

" From the homesteads, warm and low. 
By the brook and in the glen ! " 

" We will rear new homes under trees that glow 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 



And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard trees. 

Where first our children played 
'Midst the birds and honey beeH ! 

" All, all our own shall the forests be. 
As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 
None shall say, ' Hither, no farther pass ! ' 
We will track each step through the wavj 

grass. 
We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 
And bring pioud spoils to the hearth at night.' 

" But 0, the gray church tower. 
And the sound of Sabbath bell. 

And the sheltered garden bower. 
We have bid them all farewell ! 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts anci 

floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods ; 
And our works unto many a lake's green shorp 
Where the Indians' graves lay alone before." 

"But who shall teach the flowers. 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours ? 
Home, home and friends^ farewell ! " 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.! 

" If I could see him, it were well with me I " 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 

There were lights and sounds of revelling in 

the vanquished city's halls, 
As by night the feast of victory was held with 

in its walls ; 
And the conquerors filled the wine cup higlr 

after years of bright blood shed ; 
But their lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst thi 

triumph wailed the dead. 

1 The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss 
of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege 
of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana, 
It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads it 
Lockhart's beautiful collection. 



E16 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



He looked down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and flowers below, 
The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets — and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

atterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou 

city of the sea ! 
But O, what portion of delight is mine at last 

in thee ? — 
I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll, 
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother ! O my brother ! thou art gone — 

the true and brave, 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon 

thy grave. 
There are many round my throne to stand, and 

to march where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world — my 

brother ! thou art gone ! 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean tem- 
pest's wrath. 

We stood together, side by side — one hope was 
ours, one path ; 

Thou hast wrapped me in thy soldier's cloak, 
thou hast fenced me with thy breast, 

Thou hast watched beside my couch of pain — 
O, bravest heart, and best ! 

" I see the festive lights around, — o'er a dull, 

sad world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where 

is thine ? 
The only voice in whos6 kind tone my spirit 

found reply ! — 
brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my 
glory and my sway. 

And chiefs to lead them fearlessly — my friend 
hath passed away ! 

For the kindly look, the word of cheer my 
heart may thirst in vain ; 

And the face that was as light to mine — it can- 
not come again ! 



" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, tM 

offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I 

have purchased cold renown ; 
How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds 

of triumph die. 
When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower 

of chivalry ! 

" I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even 

as death ! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the 

battle trumpet's breath : 
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother ? where ? In 

thy low and early grave ! " 

And louder swelled the songs of joy through 

* that victorious night, 

And faster flowed the red wine forth, by the 

stars' and torches' light : 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 

the conqueror's moan — 
" My brother ! my brother ! best and bravest ! 

thou art gone ! " 



THE RETURN. 

" Hast thou come with the heart of thy child- 
hood back ; 
The free, the pure, the kind ? " 
— So murmured the trees in my homeward 
track. 
As they played to the mountain wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ? " 

Whispered my native streams ; 
" Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove 

Still revered its first high dreams ? " 

'« Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayet 
Of the child in his parent halls ? " 

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 
From the old ancestral walls. 

"Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithim 
dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed. 

With the mother's trusting eye i " 



1 

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. SI 


rhen my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 


Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 


As I answered — " ye shades ! 


My spirit they detain ; 


I bring not my childhood's heart again 


I know that from thine agony 


To the freedom of your glades. 


Is wrung that burning rain. 




Best ! kindest ! weep not — make the panfi 


" I have turned from my first pure love aside, 


The bitter conflict less — 


bright and happy streams ! 


0, sad it is, and yet a joy, 


Light after light, in my soul have died 


To feel thy love's excess ! 


The dayspring's glorious dreams. 






But calm thee ! let the thought of death 


•« And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 


A solemn peace restore ! 


passed — 


The voice that must be silent soon 


The prayer at my mother's knee ; 


Would speak to thee once more, 


Darkened and troubled I come at last, 


That thou mayst bear its blessing on 


Home of my boyish glee ! 


Through years of after life — 




A token of consoling love. 


• But I bear from my childhood a gift of tearSj 


Even from this hour of strife. 


To soften and atone ; 




Lnd 0, ye scenes of those blessed years, 


I bless thee for the noble heart, 


T^ev shall make me again your own." 


The tender and the true. 


i^ 


Where mine hath found the happiest 
rest 
That e'er fond woman's knew ; 






I bless thee, faithful friend and guide ! 
For my own, my treasured share 


ITTE VAUDOIS' WIFE.' 


" (Jlasp me a little longer on the brink 


In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 


Of fate I while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, O, think — 


In thy sorrow, in thy prayer 


And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 




That'thou hast been to me all tenderness, 


I bless thee for kind looks and words 


And friend to more than human friendship just. 




O, by that retrospect of happiness. 


Showered on my path like dew, 


And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 


For all the love in those deep eyes, 


God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust" 
Geeteude of Wtomiito, 


A gladness ever new ! 




For the voice which ne'er to mine re* 


Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 


plied 


Thy look is in my heart. 


But in kindly tones of cheer ; 


rhy bosom is my resting-place. 


For every spring of happiness 


And yet I must depart. 


My soul hath tasted here ! 


Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 




Too precious is its chain, 


I bless thee for the last rich boon 


All woven of thy love, dear friend, 


Won from aff'ection tried — 


Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 


The right to gaze on death with thee, 




To perish by thy side ! 


Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 


And yet more for the glorious hope 


Thou seest my lifeblood flow — 


Even to these moments given — 


Bow to the Chastener silently, 


Did not thy spirit ever lift 


And calmly let me go ! 


The trust of mine to heaven ? 


A Httle whUe between our hearts 




The shadowy gulf must lie, 


Now be thou strong ! O, knew we not 


Yet have we for their communing 


Our path must lead to this ? 


Still, still eternity ! 


A shadow and a trembling still 




Were mingled with our bliss ! 




We plighted our young hearts when stomu 


> The wife of a Vav.dois leader, ;n one of tho attacks 
made on the Protestant hamlets, received a monal wound. 


Were dark upon tne sky, 


tnd di«d in her husband's anns, exhorting him to courage 


In full, deep knowledge of their task 


h4 endurance. 


To suff'er and to die ! 



f 
118 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


Be strong ! I leaT 3 the living voice 


If from my heart the fiery vow, 


Of this, my mai tyred blood, 


Seared on it then, could fade. 


With the thousand echoes of the hills, 


They have no cause ! Go, ask the streams 


With the torrent's foaming flood — 


That by my paths have swept, 


A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 


The red waves that unstained were born — 


A token on the air, 


How hath my faith been kept .? 


To rouse the vahant from repose, 




The fainting from despair. 


And other eyes are on my soul, 




That never, never close, 


Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 


The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 


Ay, joyously endure ! 


They leave me no repose. 


Our mountains must be altars yet, 


Haunting my night watch 'midst the rocks, 


Inviolate and pure ; 


And by the torrent's foam, 


There must our God be worshipped stiU 


Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 


With the worship of the free : 


Full, full of love and home ! 


Farewell ! — there's but one pang in death. 




One only — leaving thee ! 


Alas ! the mountain eagle's heart. 




When wronged, may yet find rest , 




Scorning the place made desolate. 




He seeks another nest. 


THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW. 


But I — your soft looks wake the thirst 




That vdns no quenching rain ; 


" All my pretty ones I 
DidyouBftyBU? 


Ye drive me back, my beautiful ! 
To the stormy fight again. 


Let ua make medicine of this great revenge, 




To cure this deadly grief I " Macbeth. 




My battle vow ! — no minster walls 




Gave back the burning word. 
Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 


THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. 


Of smothered vengeance heard : 


" Thither where he lies buried I 


But the ashes of a ruined home 
Thrilled as it sternly rose, 


That single spot is the whole world to me/ 

CoLKBiDOK's " Wallenstein." 


With the mingling voice of blood that shook 


Thy voice was in my soul ! it called me on ; 


The midnight's dark repose. 


my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul. 




From the cold, faded world whence thou an 


I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 


gone. 


But where my children lay. 


To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 


And the startled vulture at my step 


I come ! I come ! 


Soared from their precious clay. 




I stood amidst my dead alone — 


Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 


I kissed their lips — I poured. 


We loved ! — 0, still I know that still we love j 


In the strong silence of that hour, 


I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, 


My spirit on my sword. 


Though these dim aisles in dreams of tht^ to 
rove : 

This is my home ! 


The roof tree fallen, the smouldering floor. 


The blackened threshold stone. 




The bright hair torn, and soiled with blood. 


Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 


Whose fountain was my own — 


Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no fare- 


These, and the everlasting hills, 


well ! 


Bore witness that wild night ; 


I win not shrink — 0, mighty is the tomb, 


Before them rose th' avenger's soul 


But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell— 


In crushed afi"ection's might. 


This woman's heart ! 


The stars, the searching stars of heaven. 


This lone, full, fragile heart ! — the strong alone 


With keen looks would upbraid 


In love and grief — of both the burning shrin« ' \ 

1 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



51S 



thou, mv soul's friend ! with grief hast surely- 
done, 
But -with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part ? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 
The wind's low singing through the fretted 
stone. 
I hear not thee ; and yet I feel thee near — 
What is this bound that keeps thee from thine 
own? 

Breathe it away. 

1 wait thee — I adjure thee ! Hast thou known 
How I have loved thee ? couldst thou dream 
it all ? 
Am I not here, with night and death alone, 
And fearing not ? And hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway ? 

Thcfu canst not come ! or thus I should not weep ! 

Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be. 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep dreams, 

Our young affections, have not gushed in 

vain; 

Boon in one tide shall blend the severed streams. 

The worn heart break its bonds — and death 

and pain 

Be with the past ! 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 

" Aa are our hearts, our way is one, 
And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things. 
Will I not live with thee ? will I not cheer thee ? 
Wouldst thou he lonely then V wouldst thou be sad?" 

Joanna Baillie. 

'• Sister, sweet sister ! let me weep a while ! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way ! 
thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle. 

Come as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears— 
0, could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

• Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye, 
0\ir brother's bounding step — where are they, 
where ? 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 
— Haw hast thou won thy spirit from despair ? 



O'er mine swift shadows gusts of terror, sweep : 
I sink away — bear with me — let me weep ! " 

" Yes ! weep my sister ! weep, tUlfrom thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears ; yet sink thou 
not. 

I bind my sorry to a lofty part, 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet iii quenchless trust. My soul is strong : 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere loij.g. 

" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious dead — 

These mantle me with power ; and though theit 
fires 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 

Yet shall they hght us onward, side by side — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ' 

"Cheer then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image — in whose voice a tone, 

A faint, sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, 
An echo of our childhood's music gone. 

Cheer thee ! thy sister's heart and faith are high 

Our path is one — with thee I live and die ! " 

[" But who are they that sit, mourning in their loveliness- 
beneath the shadow of a rock on the surf-beaten shole.' 

The Sisters of Scio by Felicia Dorothea Hemaui 

sung. Die — rather let them die in famine amongst sea 
sand shells, than ere their virgin charms be polluted in the 
harem of the barbarian who has desolated their native isle. 
Bowed down and half dead, beneath what a load of anguish 
hangs the orphan's dishevelled head on the knee of a sister, 
in pensive resignation, and holy faith triumphant over de- 
spair, as Felicia happily singeth ! " — Professor Wiuom, 
Blackwood''s Magazine. Dec. 1829.] 



'-^ 



/ BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

[The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio^ 
having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the releas* 
of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned 
by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Ber- 
nardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men 
of the land gatherad round the king, and united in demand- 
ing Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Ber- 
nardo immediate possession of his father's person in ex- 
change for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesita- 
tion, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives ; and 
being assured that his father was then on his way from pris- 
on, rode forth with the king to meet him. " And when he 
saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient 
chronicle, " ' O God ! is the Count of Saldana indeed com- 
ing i" — ' Look where he is,' replied the cruel king; 'and 
now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to 
see.' " The remainder of the story will be found related in 
the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly 
in the dark as to Bernardo's histoiy after this event | 



620 



SONGS or THE AFFECTIONS. 



The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed 
his heart of fire. 

And sued the haughty king to free his long- 
imprisoned sire : 

•• I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 
captive train, 

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — O, 
break my father's chain ! " 

*' Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 
somed man this day : 

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 
him on his way." 

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 
his steed, 

And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 
foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came 

a glittering band, 
With one that 'midst them stately rodf>, as a 

leader in the land ; • 
"Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, 

his cheek's blood came and went ; 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, 

and there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped 

from his like lead : 
He looked up to the face above — the face was 

of the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fixed and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them 

was no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but 

who ijould paint that gaze ? 
They hu<?hed their very hearts, that saw its 

hoi r or and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that 

stony form he stood. 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his Up the blood. 



" Father ! " at length he murmured low, and 

wept hke childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all hia 

young renown' — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sat down. 

Then covering with his steel- gloved hands hig 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift 

the sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father 

— O, the worth. 
The glory and the loveliness, are passed away 

from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet — 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain'a 

free soil had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for 

thee my fields were won — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the 
courtier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear- 
ing war horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face — the king 
before the dead ! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 

me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give 

answer, where are they ? — 
K thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send 

life through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light Be still I 

keep down thine ire — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — thia 

earth is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 

my blood was shed — 
Thou canst not — and a king! His dust b« 

mountains on thy head!" 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



6'M 



He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell — upon 

the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look — then 

turned from that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in 

martial strain — 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the 

hi'Is of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. 

" To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This i^Iace is consecrate ; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction." Wokds worth. 

[At ilindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as burst- 
ing from ttie sepulciire, with her infant in her ai laa, at the 
sound of the last trumpet An inscription on the tomb con- 
cludes tlius: " Here am I, O God! with the child whom 
thou hast given me."] 

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, 
Plu ?ked on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 
Hopes from their source aU holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round aflfection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours ; 

Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meet- 
ing; 

Of childhood's voice, amidst the household 
bowers ; 

And bounding step, and smile of joyous greet- 
ing ; — 

But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 

Didst take the babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is 

past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's 

blast. 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking ? 
Thou hear'st, thou answer' st, " God of earth and 

heaven ! 
Here am I, vnth the child 'vhom thou hast 

given ! " 

6fi 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE. 

"Fear no more the heat of the sun, 
Kor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages." CruBELlKB. 

[" I attended a funeral where there were a number uf th« 
German settlers present. After I had performed such sei 
vice as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-look< 
ing old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing 
that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He 
opened a very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they 
all began to sing, In German, so loud that the woods echoed 
the strain. There was something affecting in the singing 
of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his 
last home, and using the language and rites which they had 
brought with them over the sea from the fatcrland, a word 
which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, 
and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the body 
along: the words 'meiii OoK,' 'mem Bruder,' and 'Filter 
land,' died away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I 
shall long remember that funeral hymn." — Flint's Reeol 
lections of the Valley of the Mississippi.'] 

There went a dirge through the forest's gloom 
— An exUe was borne to a lonely tomb. 

" Brother ! " (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be 
Long the exile's woe hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams 
Wander'd through thy fever dreams ; 
Voices from thy country's vines 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines ; 
And thy true heart died away, 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swelled the chant ; and the deep wind'l 

moan 
Seemed through the cedars to murmur — "Gone!" 

" Brother ! by the rolling Rhine 
Stands the home that once was thine } 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blessed thine infant head 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played 
Rest beneath their own oak shade, 
Far, far hence ! — yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath called thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland ! " 



<22 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



" The Fatherumd ! " — with that sweet word 
A burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard. 

"Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourned and lost one found ! 
But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air ; 
Loved and bright things to resign. 
As even now this dust of thine ; 
Yet to hope ! — to hope in heaven. 
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven — 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland ! " 

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom ; 
They had reached the exile's lonely tomb. 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 

•Alas I what kind of grief should thy years know? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them." 

Beaumoitt and Fletchek. 

And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy ? 
What should the cloud be made of ? Blessed 

chad! 
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, 
All day hath ranged through sunshine clear, yet 

mUd : 

And now thou tremblest ! — wherefore ? — in 

thy soul 
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage Irom the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young 
eye 

Hath looked not into death's, and thence be- 
come 

A questioner of mute eternity, 

A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quickened unto pain 
By feverish watching for some step beloved : 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

tet now, on billows of strange passion tossed, 
How art thou wildered in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child ! 'midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep ? 



AAvake ! they sadden me — those early teats, 
First gushings of the strong, dark river's flow. 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming yeam. 
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe ! 

Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, 
Forcing wild spraydrops but from childhood'* 

eyes ! 
Wake, wake ! as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms un- 
known. 

Where now thy thoughts dismayed and darkling 
rove ; 

Come to the kindly region all thine own, 

The home still bright for thee with guardias 
love. 

Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee back from visionary strife ! — 
O, shall my soul, thus wakened to rejoice, 
Start from the dream-like wilderness of life ? 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 

" O that those lips had language ! Life hath passed 
With me but roughly since I saw thee last" COWPH. 

Thine eyes are charmed — thine earnest eyes— 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within thy sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see : 

And sometimes pity — soft and deep, 

And quivering through a tear ; 
Even as if love in heaven could weep 

For grief left drooping here. 

And O, my spirit needs that balm ! 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth ! 
And in the night hour's haunted calm, 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thus, when hollow praise 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine ! 



Look on me thm, when sudden glee 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free, 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee : 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Swaet face, that o'er my childhood shone ! 

Whence is thy power of change. 
Thus ever shadowing back my own, 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charmed — those earnest eyes ? 

— I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis bom — 

O, change no longer, thou ! 
Forever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 



PARTING WORDS. 

" One struggle more, and I am free."— Btrow. 

Leave me ! O, leave me ! Unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou mak'st those mortal regions, whence I go. 
Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair. 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound. 
Too strong, for aught that loves and dies, to 
bear — 

O, bid the conflict cease ! 

I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears giish 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
ITiou bidd'st the peace, the reverential hush. 
The stUl submission, from my thoughts depart : 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky — 
O, take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 
Thou art all earth to me ! 



Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 

Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beech roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can 
stray 

From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching 

sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away ! 

Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart an J 

Heaven ; 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! — 
Why must our souls thus love, and then be rivei ? 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
O, yet a while delay ! 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

Thou'rt passing hence, my brother I 

O my earliest friend, fareweU ! 
Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hUls, and from the heartti 

And from the household tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes with thee.' 

But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead. 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

I " Messages from the living to the dead are not une^ 
mon in the Highlands. The Gaels have such a ceasp]«t* 
consciousness of immortality, that their departed frienJa ac« 
considered as merely absent for a time, and permitted to r«i 
lieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse with 
the objects of their earliest affection*!." — See the NotM to 
Mrs, Bruntou's Works. 



524 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


Tell, then, our friend of boyhood 


My home ! The spirit of its love is breathing 


That yet his name is heard 


In every wind that blows across my track ; 


On the blue mountains, whence his youth 


From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 


Passed like a swift, bright bird. 


Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 


The light of his exulting brow, 




The vision of his glee, 


There am I loved — there prayed for — there 


Are on me still — 0, still I trust 


my mother 


That smile again to see. 


Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 




There my young sisters watch to greet theii 


And tell our fair young sister, 


brother — 


The rose cut down in spring, 


Soon their glad footsteps down the path wUl fly. 


That yet my gushing soul is fiUed 




With laj's she loved to sing. 


There, in sweet strains of kindred music blend- 


Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams. 


ing, 


Tender and sadly sweet ; — 


All the home voices meet at day's decline ; 


Tell her my heart within me burns 


One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 


Once more that gaze to meet. 


There laughs my home — sad stranger I where 




is thine ? 


And tell our white-haired father, 




That in the paths he trode. 


Ask'st thou of mine ? In solemn peace 'tis lying. 


The child he loved, the last on earth, 


Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 


Yet walks and worships God. 


'Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying. 


Say, that his last fond blessing yet 


And fond hearts wait my step — but where are 


Rests on my soul like dew, 


they? 


And by its hallowing might I trust 




Once more his face to view. 


Ask where the earth's departed have their dwell- 


And tell our gentle mother, 


ing ; 

Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 


That on her grave I pour 


I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 


The sorrows of my spirit forth, 


My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 


As on her breast of yore. 




Happy thou art that soon, how soon. 


And what is home, and where, but with the 


Our good and bright will see ! — 


loving 


brother, brother ! may I dwell, 


Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 


Ere long, with them and thee ! 


My spirit feels but, in its weary roving. 




That witii the dead, where'er they be, is mine. 




Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 


THE TWO HOMES. 


Bear in fresh gladness to tht household scene ! 




For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 


" O, if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love immortal too ? " 


I weU believe — but dark seas roll be- ween. 


Seest thou my home ? 'Tis where yon woods 




are waving. 




In their dark richness, to the summer air. 


THE SOLDIER'S DEATH BED. 


Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower banks 




laving, 


" Wie lierrlich die Sonne dort untergehtl da ich noch ein Bub« 


Leads down the hills a vein of Ught — 'tis there ! 


war — war's mein Lieblingegedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie ^ 
sterben!" DiB Raubeb 


"Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 


Like thee to die, thou sun ! — My boyhood's dream 


gleaming. 


Was this ; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 


Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies ! 


Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 


My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 


Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power, 


dreaming, 


Nature's deep longings. for some kind eye 


Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 


Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



621 



Borne breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of home and better days, 
Bej'ond the pass of shadows ! But I go, 
I that have been so loved, go hence alone j 
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's 

glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 
E'en in this moment, with your laughing glee. 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me — 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying. 
On the red banner of his battles dying. 
Far, far away ! And O, your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmured there ? 
It will ! — A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its 

mirth. 
Mother ! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear 

head 
Blessing and love a thousand fold be shed, 
My soul's last earthly breathings ! May your 

home 
Smile for you ever ! May no winter come. 
No world, between your hearts ! May e'en your 

tears, 
For my sake, full of long-remembered years. 
Quicken the true affections that intwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 
My memory living in th' ancestral halls, 
Where shame hath never trod. The dark night 

falls. 
And I depart. The brave are gone to rest. 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reaped : — their work is 

done — 
Thou, too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou 

sun ! 
Fhe last lone watcher of the bloody sod 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



/ 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 



TO 



" True, indeed, it is. 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone." Wordswoeth. 

" The love where death hath set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow." Brsoir. 



I CALL thee blessed ! — though now the voicr 

be fled 
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with ita 

tone. 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but light was 

thrown 

Far through thy breast : 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord since he is gone — 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I caU thee blessed ! 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot. 
As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, 
Forever green ! — the world's breath enters not, 
The passion tempests may not break its calm ; 
'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, lie» 
In its own shiine. 

Thou hast thy home! — there is no power in 

change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway, 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And O, that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee blessed. 
If only there. 

Blessed, for the beautiful within thee dwelling 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dre&an. 
No false mirage for thee, the for\'ent love. 
The rainbow still unreaclied, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and marked, hast known its home and 
place; \ 



S2B 



SONGS OF THE' AFFECTIONS. 



And the high memory of its holy worth 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore aw^ay 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 
Thine still in heaven ! 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

"And Ireams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us wliat we were not— what they will, • 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by." 

BVKOK. 

O SPIRIT land ! thon land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have 

birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by. 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art Hke those dim sea caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

Ajid thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair : 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see. 
The eyes whose love hath been life to me : 



They are there — and each blessed voice I hear 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery cleat ; 
But undertones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow » 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes fafai 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt way ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 

All the home faces are met by the blaze, — 

And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet 

say, 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tU 

gone. 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
O, a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where ? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me bum 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er re- 
turn ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright. 
From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn 

light. 
And O, with the loved whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as yet it may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere. 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 
So my soul may bear on through the long, long 

day, 
TiU I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE 

" Where hath not woman stood 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed, upborne 
By an o'ermastcring current I " 

Gentle and lovely form ! 

What didst thou here. 
When the fierce battle storm 

Bore down the spear > 

Banner and shivered crest* 
Beside thee strewn. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 62f 




Itll that amidst the best 


And the rich locks, whose glow 




11 y work was done ! 


Death cannot tame ; — 




Yet Ouiangely, sadly fair, 


Only one thought, one power, 




0't'\ the wild scene 


Thee could have led, 




Gleams, through its golden hair, 


So, through the tempest's hour, 




TliaC i.row serene. 


To lift thy head ! 




Lew litA che stately head, — 


Only the true, the strong, 




Earth uound the free ; 


The love, whose trust 




How gave those haughty dead 


Woman's deep soul too long 




A place i 3 thee ? 


Pours on the dust ! 




Slumherei \ vhine early bier 






Friends bhoald have crowned. 


THE DESERTED HOUSE. 




Many a flowfex and tear 






Shedding ai >>and ; — 


Gloom 'is upon thy lonely hearth, 

silent house ! once filled with mirth ; 




Soft voices, cle&i and young, 


Sorrow is in the breezy sound 




Mingling theli swell. 


Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 




Should o'er thy auist have sung 






Earth's last faretv-jll ; — 


The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 




Sisters, above the g*ave 


E'en in thy sunshine seems to brood 




Of thy repose, 


Something more deep than solitude. 




Should have bid violets Tvave 






With the white rose. 


Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sAvcet home of other days ! 




Now must the trumpet" » note. 


My children's birthplace ! — yet for me 




Savage and shrill, 


It is too much to look on thee. 




For requiem o'er thee float. 






Thou fair and still ! 


Too much ! for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 




And the swift charger sweep 


And almost linger for the feet 




In full career, 


That nevermore my step shall meet. 




Trampling thy place of sleep — 






Why cam' St thou here ? 


The looks, the smiles, all vanished now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 




WTiy ? Ask the true heart why 


The echoes of kind household words 




Woman hath been 


Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 




Ever where brave men die, 






Unshrinking seen. 


Till my heart dies, it dies away 

In yearnings for what might not stay ; 




Unto this harvest ground 


For love which ne'er deceived my trust, 




Proud reapers came, — 


For all which went with " dust to dust ! * 




Some, for that stirring sound, 






A warrior's name ; — 


What now is left me, but to raise 



Some for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some to fling away 

A weary life ; — 

Bat thou, pale sleeper! thou 
With the slight £ra.me. 



From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze, 
To lift through tears my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ? 

O, many are the mansions there,' 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 

I '' In my Father's house are many mansions." 

John, chap. Il5 



S28 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



No haunting shade from things gone by 
May there o'ersweep th' unchanging sky. 

And they are there, -whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,' 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death, v 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore 
The severed wreath is bound once more ! 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you to live and die. 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart ! O, wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think' st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is 'with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A IcT jly sight at fall of day ; 
Tiien are the stranger's thoughts oppressed - 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

I From an ancient Hebrew dirge : — 

" Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead. 
For he is at rest, and we in tears I" 



Thou think'st it sweet when friend with Mend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land, 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
O, 'midst them all when blessed thou art. 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE. 

They haunt me still ~- those calm, pure, holy 
eyes ! 
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my 
di'eams ; 
The soul of music that within them lies 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams : 
Life — spirit life — immortal and divine — 
Is there ; and yet how dark a death was thine ! 

Could it — O, could it be — meek child of song ? 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong \ 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow ? 
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast. 
Might brave their strife — a flute note hush the 
blast ! 

Are there not deep, sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face ? 

Yes ! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed, 
Thrown on a world for heavenly tilings no 
place ! 

Bright, exiled birds that visit alien skies, 

Pourii^ on storms their suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, 
Whereon their trembling plumage might re- 
pose. 
And their free song notes, from that happy 
nest, 
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows , 
Vain dream ! — the love whose precious balms 

might save 
Still, still denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in tuine eye : 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



6i9 



COME HOME! 

CoK£ home ! There is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower scents wander by 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household yoice 

Are grown more sad and deep ; 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye beloved ! come home ! The hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth light and of song 

Returns — and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where iinds it you, ye wandering ones ! 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed ? Beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid sea ? 
By stormy hills of battles old ? 

Or where dark rivers foam ? 
O, life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful — 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, stUI your home is fair. 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

" Implora pace I " 1 

One draught, kind fairy ! from that fountain 

deep, 
I'd lay the phantoms of a haunted breast ; 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

i Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes 
Che impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bo- 
ogna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, " When I 
iie. I could wish that some friend would see these words, 
•nd no other, placed above my grave — ' Implora pace ." " 
67 



Yet, mortal ! pause ! Within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thoughts 

divine 
Heap that full treasure house ; and thou haat 

made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; — • 
Shall the dark ivaters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught effaon 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf 
Raze the one master grief ! 

Yet pause once more ! All, all thy soul hath 

known. 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ' 
Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone 
A sense of spring time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy daydreams would re- 
call? 

Think — wouldst thou part with all i 

Fill with forgetfulness ! There are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well — 
Eyes of deep gentleness ; but they are far — 
Never ! O, never in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! With memory wUt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 
That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulnes.o, fill high ! Yet stay 
'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smUes, long lost, again shall light cm 

way, 
And the soul's friends be wreathed in one bright 

band. 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill — 
I niiisf remember stUJ. 

For their sake, for the dead — whose imagt 

nought 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthJ, 

thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit — yet 
I ask not to forget. 



180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE BRIDAL DAY. 


Bride ! when through the stately fane, 


[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitapli, le- 
cording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, 
"vho expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the al- 
tar.] 


Circled with thy nuptial train, 
'Midst the banners hung on high 
By thy warrior ancestry, 
'Midst those mighty fathers dead, 


" We bear her home I we bear her home I 
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam ; 
One who has fled from the war of life, 


In soft beauty thou wast led ; 
When before the shrine thy form 


From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife." 


Quivered to some bosom storm. 


Baeky Coknwall. 


When, like harpstrings with a sigh 


Bride ! upon thy marriage day, 


Breaking in mid harmony, 


When thy gems in rich array 


On thy lip the murmurs low 


Made the glistening mirror seem 


Died with love's unfinished vow ; 


As a star-reflecting stream ; 


When, like scattered rose leaves fled 


When the clustering pearls lay fair 


From thy cheek each tint of red, 


'Midst thy braids of sunny hair. 


And the light forsook thine eye, 


And the white veil o'er thee streaming, 


And thy head sunk heavily ; 


Like a silvery halo gleaming. 


Was that drooping but th' excess 


Mellowed all that pomp and h'ght 


Of thy spirit's blessedness ? 


Into something meekly bright ; 


Or did some deep feeling's might. 


Did the fluttering of thy breath 


Folded in thy heart from sight, 


Speak of joy or woe beneath ? 


With a sudden tempest shower 


And the hue that went and came 


Earthward bear thy life's young flower f 


O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame. 


— Who shall tell us ? On thy tongue 


Flowed that crimson from th' unrest 


Silence, and forever, hung ! 


Or the gladness of thy breast ? 


Never to thy lip and cheek 


— Who shall tell us ? From thy bower 


Bushed again the crimson streak ; 


Brightly didst thou pass that hour ; 


Never to thine eye returned 


With the many-glancing oar. 


That which there had beamed and burned 


And the cheer along the shore. 


With the secret none might know, 


And the wealth of summer flowers 


With thy rapture or thy woe. 


On thy fair head cast in showers, 


With thy marriage robe and wreath, 


And the breath of song and flute, 


Thou wert fled, young bride of death ! 


And the clarion's glad salute. 


One, one hghtning moment there 


Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 


Struck down triumph to despair ; 


Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ! 


Beauty, splendor, hope, and trust, 


Mirth and music, sun and sky. 


Into darkness — terror — dust ! 


Welcomed thee triumphantly ! 


i 


Yet, perchance, a chastening thought 


There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, 


In some deeper spirit wrought. 


Bride ! as forth thy kindred bore thee. 


Whispering, as untold it blent 


Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, 


With the sounds of merriment — 


Deaf to that wild funeral wail. 


" From the home of childhood's glee. 


Yet perchance a chastening thought 


From the days of laughter free. 


In some deeper spirit wrought. 


From the love of many years. 


Whispering, while the stem, sad knell 


Thou art gone to cares and fears ; 


On the air's bright stillness fell — 


To another path and guide. 


" From the power of chill and cliango 


To a bosom yet untrief" ! 


Souls to sever and estrange ; 


Bright one ! 0, there well may be 


From love's wane — a death in Iile, 


Trembling 'midst our joy for thee ! " 


But to watch — a mortal strife ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



531 



From the secret fevers known 

To the burning heart alone, 

Thou art fled — afar, away — 

Where these blights no more have sway ! 

Bright one ! O, there well may be 

Comfort 'midst our tears for thee ! " 



THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 

"A long war disturbed your mind — 
Here your perfect peace is signed ; 
'Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day — 
End your moan,and come away." 

Webstek, " Duclieas of Malfy." 

There were faint sounds of weeping ; fear and 

gloom 
And midnight vigil in a statelj' room 
Of Lusignan's old halls. Rich odors there 
Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air, 
And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown 
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 
Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleamed. 
And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed 
Than in the heart leaf of the rose is set. 
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet 
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain. 
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 
WTiose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, 
Hung drooping solemnly, — for there one lay. 
Passing from all earth's glories fast away. 
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been 
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands ; 
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen 
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 
Had pressed them to her languid heart once more, 
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er — 
Love's last, vain clinging unto life ; and now 
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow ; 
Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed, 
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved, 
Far, far away ! Her handmaids watched around. 
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 
A might, a mystery ; and the qiiivering light 
Of wind-swayed lamps made spectral in their 

sight 
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, 
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair. 
Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw, 
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe. 
Those pictured shapes ! — a bright, yet solemn 

train 
Beckonmg, they floated o'er her dreamy brain, 



Clothed in diviner hues ; while on her ear 
Strange voices fell, which none besides might 

hear, 
— Sweet, yet profoiindly mournful, as tha 

sigh ., 
Of winds o'er harpstrings through a midnighl 

sky; 
And thus it seemed, in that low, thrilling 

tone, 
Th' ancestral shadows called away their own. 

Come, come, come ! 
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned 
For the step that ne'er returned ; 
Long thine anxious ear hath listened, 
And thy watchful eye hath glistened 
With the hope, whose parting strife 
Shook the flower leaves from thy life 
Now the heavy day is done : 
Home awaits thee, wearied one ! 

Come, come, come ! 

From the quenchless thoughts that burn 
In the sealed heart's lonely urn j 
From the coil of memory's chain 
Wound about the throbbing brain ; 
From the veins of sorrow deep. 
Winding through the world of sleep ; 
From the haunted halls and bowers, 
Thronged with ghosts of happier hour* I 
Come, come, come ! 

On our dim and distant shore 

Aching love is felt no more ! 

We have loved with earth's excess — 

Past is now that weariness ! 

We have wept, that weep not now — 

Calm is each once-beating brow ! 

We have known the dreamer's woes 

All is now one bright repose ! 

Come, come, come ! 

Weary heart that long hast bled. 
Languid spirit, drooping head. 
Restless memory, vain regret. 
Pining love whose light is set, 
Come away ! — 'tis hushed, 'tis well, 
^Vhere by shadowy founts we dwell. 
All the fever thirst is stilled, 
All the air with peace is filled, — 
Come, come, come ! 

And with her spirit wrapped in that wild 

lay 
She passed, as twilight melts to night, away I 



532 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers — 


THE MAGIC GLASS. 


Never hath pilgrim sought their household 




bowers, 


" now lived, how loved, how died they ?"— Bteow. 


Or poet hailed their tomb." 


* The dead I the glorious dead ! — and shall 




they rise? 


'• Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell ! 


Stall they look on thee with their proud bright 


Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves 


eyes ? 


may tell 


Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 


That which I pine to know ! 


iet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall 


I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 


What kingly vision shall obey my call ? 


Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, 


The deep grave knows it well ! 


Records of joy and woe." 


" Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors ? shall 




they pass 




Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 


CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 


With triumph's long array ? 




Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn, 


" Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carriere biea 


Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, 


peu de sorte qui puiasent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femmt 
oimee et d'une mere heureuse." Madame db Siab' 


As on their proudest day. 






Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 


"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of 


Thou to whom its fires are given, 


song? 


Joyously thy ear hath rolled 


O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 


Where the conqueror's passed of old ; 


Shall waft a solemn gleam ! 


And the festal sun that shone 


Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, 


O'er three hundred triumphs gone,' 


Under the foliage of green laurel boughs, 


Makes thy day of glory bright 


But silent as a dream." 


With a shower of golden light. 


" Not these, mighty master ! — though their 


Now thou tread' st th' ascending road 


lays 


Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 


Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 


While, from tombs of heroes borne, 


Hallowed forevermore ! 


From the dust of empire shorn. 


And not the buried conquerors — let them sleep, 


Flowers upon thy graceful head. 


And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep 


Chaplets of all hues, are shed. 


In joy, from shore to shore ! 


In a soft and rosy rain. 




Touched with many a gem-like stain. 


« But if the narrow house may so be moved. 




Call the bright shadows of the most beloved 


Thou hast gained the summit now ! 


Back from their couch of rest ! 


Music hails thee from below ; 


That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled 


Music, whose rich notes might stir 


With peace, if human love hath ever stilled 


Ashes of the sepulchre ; 


The yearning human breast." 


Shaking with victorious notes 




All the bright air as it floats. 


• Away, fond youth ! — an idle quest is thine : 


Well may woman's heart beat high 


These have no trophy, no memorial shrine ; 


Unto that proud harmony ! 


I know not of their place ! 




Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, 


Now afar it rolls — it dies — 


their lives, like shepherd reed notes, faint and 


And thy voice is heard to rise 


low. 


With a low and lovely tone. 


Have passed, and left no trace. 


In its thrilling power alone ; 




And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 


* Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 


Touched as by. a breeze's wing, 


^d the wild sounds of melancholy rills. 




Their covering tujf may bloom ; 


1 " The trebly hundred triumphs."— Bti m 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



£fl 



Murmurs tremblingly at first, 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught 
From the joy of kindled thought ; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lip flow, fast and strong, 
With a rushing stream's dehght 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 
Now thy Uving wreath is won. 
Crowned of Rome ! — 0, art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot ? 
Happier, happier far than thou. 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
tjovely but to one on earth ! 



THE RUIN. 

O, ti» the heart that magnifiea this life, 
Making a truth and beauty of its own." 

WORDSWOKTH. 

" Birth has gladdened it : death has sanctified it ' 
GuKssEs AT TBura, 

^o dower of storied song is thine, 

O desolate abode ! 
Forth from thy gates no glittering line 

Of lance and spear hath flowed. 
Banners of knighthood have not flung 

Proud drapery o'er thy walls. 
Nor bugle notes to battle rung 

Through thy resounding haUs. 

Nor have rich bowers of phasaunce here 

By courtly hands been dressed, 
For princes, from the chase of deer. 

Under green leaves to rest : 
Only some rose, yet lingering bright 

Beside thy casements lone. 
Tells where the spirit of delight 

Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword. 

And sovereign beauty's lot. 
House of quenched light and silent board ! 

For me thou needest not. 
It is enough to know that here., 

Where thoughtfully I stand, 
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, 

Have linked one kindred band. 



Thou bindest me with mighty spells ! 

— A solemnizing breath, 
A presence all around thee dwells 

Of human life and death. 
I need but pluck yon garden flower 

From where the wild weeds rise. 
To wake, with strange and sudden power, 

A thousand sj'mpathies. 

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth 1 

Deserted now by all ! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 

And childhood's laughing glee. 
And song and prayer, have all been known 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 

Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured 

Upon the infant head. 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed ; 
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 

The bloom from life away — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air. 

Where nought beloved can stay ! 

Here, by the restless bed of pain, 

The vigil hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain. 

Burst forth on eyes that wept ; 
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom. 

The breathless influence, shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from tbt- 
room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face, 

Have here been marked and mourned. 
And time hath filled the vacant place, 

And gladness hath returned ; 
Till from the narrowing household chain 

The links dropped one by one ! 
And homewards hither, o'er the main, 

Came the spring birtis alone. 

Is there not cause, then — cause for thpight, 

Fixed eye and lingering tread. 
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraugb^ 

Even lowliest hearts have bled ? 
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath 
burst 

The clouds that wrapt its way ? 



Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot — 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here, 

Hearth of the dead ! I stand, 
"Where joy and sorrow, smUe and tear. 

Have linked one household band. 



THE MINSTER. 

Bi»i:ak low ! The place is holy to the breath 
Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer ; 

Tread Ughtly ! — for the sanctity of death 
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, 

Stern, yet serene ! — a reconciling spell. 

Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 

Leave me to linger silently a while ! 
— Not for the light that pours its fervid 
streams 
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle. 

Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. 
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's 

tomb 
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing. 

Mighty as forest sounds when winds are 

high; 

Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 

Through incense mists their sainted pageantry, 

Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and 

power. 
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour 

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 
I^inks me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 

Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 
poured 
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ; 

I look back on the pangs, the burning tears. 

Known to these altars of a thousand years. 

Send up a murmur from the dust. Remorse ! 

That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head ; 

Ajid thou, still battling with the tempest's 

force — 

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time 

has bled — 

Bp«ik, wounded Love ! if penance here, or 

prayer, 
Eath laid one haunting shadow of despair 1 



No voice, no breath ! — of conflicts past nc 
trace ! 
— Doth not this hush give answer to my 
quest ? 

Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might con- 
fessed ! — 

O that within my heart I could but keep 

Holy to Heaven a spot thus pure, and still, and 
deep ! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT.» 

" O night, 
And storm, and darkness I ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength I " BvBOir. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet 

dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves. 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that, on their noonday 

track. 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lUy back, 
Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace, — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood walks, o'er the honey 

bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young 
glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 



1 Suggested by TJiorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, lepre. 
sented under the form of a winged female figure, with tw( 
infants asleep in her arms. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53ft 


I waft them not alone 




From the deep organ of the forest shades, 


THE STORM PAINTER, IN HIS 


Or buried strean:^, unheard amidst their 


DUNGEON. 


glades 


" Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal ? 


Till the bright day is done ; — 


Are ye like those that shake the human breast f 




Or do ye imd at length, like eagles, some high neit ? " 




ClIILDE HaBOLD. 


But in the human breast 




A thousand still small voices I awake, 


Midnight, and silence deep ! 


Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to 


— The air is filled with sleep, 


shake 


With the stream's whisper, and the citron'* 


The mantle of its rest. 


breath ; 




The fixed and solemn stars 


I bring them from the past : 


Gleam through my dungeon bar? r^ 


From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 


Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm ii 


Prom crushed affections, which, though long 


death ! 


o'erborne, 




Make their tones heard at last. 


Ye watchfires of the skies ! 




The stillness of your eyes 


I bring them from the tomb : 


Looks too intensely through my troubled soul ; 


O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 


I feel this weight of rest 


They pass — though low as murmurs of a 


An earth load on my breast — 


dove — 


Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark cloudh 


Tiike trumpets through the gloom. 


roU! 


1 come with all my train : 


I am your own, your child, 


Who calls me lonely ? Hosts around me treiad, 


j-^e, the fierce, and wild. 


The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 


And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise ? 


Phantoms of heart and brain ! 


Hear the bold spirit's voice, 




That knows not to rejoice 


Looks from departed eyes, 


But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 


These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish 




vain 


By sounding ocean waves, 


Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 


And dim Calabrian caves, 


They smite with agonies. 


And flashing torrents, I have been your mate 




And with the rocking pines 


I, that with soft control 


Of the olden Apennines, 


Bhut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 


In your dark path stood fearless and elate. 


I am the avenging one! — the armed, the 




strong — 


Your lightnings were as rods. 


The searcher of the soul ! 


That smote the deep abodes 




Of thought and vision — and the stream gushed 


I, that shower dewy light 


free ; 


Through slumbering leaves, bring storms — the 


Come ! that my soul again 


tempest birth 


May swell to burst its chain — 


Of memory, thought, remorse ! Be holy, Earth ! 


Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 


I eza. the solemn Night ! ' 






Within me dwells a flame, 


« Pieiro Mulier, called II Tempesta, from his surprising 


An eagle caged and tame, 


pictures of storms. " His compositions," says Laiizi, " in- 


Till called forth by the harping of the blast 


spire a rea; horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted 


Then is its triumph's hour, 


ihips overtaken by tempests and darkness — fired by light- 


It springs to sudden power, 


ning— now rising on the mountain wave, and again sub- 


As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast 


merged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment 




of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his 




lungeor were marked by additional power and gloom. — 


Then, then, the canvas o'er. 


Ree Illvh's History of Painting, translated by Roscoe. 


With hurried hand I pour 



534 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


The lava waves and gusts of my own soul ! 


«< Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 


Kindling to fiery life 


Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead — 


Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — 


The dark unknown ? 


Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds. 


Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps faU, 


roll! 


Never again to light up hearth or hall, 




Thy smile is gone ! " 


Wake, rise ! the reed may bend. 




The shivering leaf descend. 


" Home, home!" once more the exulting Voica 


Ihe forest branch give way before your might ; 


arose : 


But I, your strong compeer. 


" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine re* 


Call, summon, wait you here — 


pose 


Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 


Never to roam ! 




Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 




To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 




Thou art gone home ! 


THE TWO VOICES. 


* 




" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 


Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain. 


Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath passed 


Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 


The rough sea's foam ! 


Meet in the sky : 


Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled, 


"Thou art gone hence ! " one sang ; " our light 


Home ! home ! — thy peace is won, thy heart ii 


is flown, 


fiUed: — 


Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own 


Thou art gone home ! " 


Ever to die ! 




" Thou art gone hence ! — our joyous hills among 


- ■• 


Never again to pour thy soul in song. 




When spring flowers rise ! 


THE PARTING SHIP. 


Never the friend's familiar step to meet 




With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 


" A glittering sliip, thiat hath the plain 


Of thy glad eyes." 


Of ocean for her own domain."— WoBDSWOBTH. 


" Thou art gone home, gone home ! " then, high 


Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 


and clear. 


Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 


Warbled that other Voice. " Tliou hast no tear 


Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be. 


Again to shed ; 


Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 


Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain ; 




Never, weighed down by memory's clouds, again 


Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft. 


To bow thy head. 


The breeze yet follows thee with cheer anfl 


" Thou art gone home ! early crowned and 


song ; 
Who now of storms hath dream or memory left 


blessed ! 


And yet the deep is strong ! 


Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 




With aught below ? 


But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 


Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay. 


Of summer tremble on the water' s breast ! 


All the bright rose leaves drop from life away — 


Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 


Thrice blessed to go ! " 


In lone, wild beauty dressed. 


Yet sighed again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 


To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide 


" Thou art gone hence ! Alas, that aught so brief 


The genii groves of Araby shall pour ; 


So loved should be .! 


Waves that infold the pearl shall bathe thy sid« 


Thou tak st our summer hence ! — the flower, 


On the old Indian shore. 


the tone. 




The music of our being, all in one. 


Oft shall the shadow of the palm tree lie 


Depart with thee ! 


O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furled^ 








T\^ [F 



AhaI tile .uierry lu.eia or wili. ajiil ylen , 

Id- l}ie preen ^iTn7r tht-y ^vnre , 

Have- fertHirrl h.^rr- Willi tilt- red wnaie'.'^ clicer 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



637 



And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, 
On the mid ocean see thee chained in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 
Between the heavens and deep. 

Ecue seas, that roll on gorgeous coasts renowned. 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes 
way ; 
Strange crealures of the abyss, that none may 
sound, 
Iiji thy broad wake shall play. 

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, 
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark ; 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! , 

A long farewell ! Thou wilt not bring us back 
All whom thou bearest far from home and 
hearth : 
Many are thine, whose steps no more shall 
track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's 
shade, 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look 
bright ; 
Borne in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
By the cold northern light. 

And some, far down below the sounding wave. 
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them 
sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave. 
Never may sister weep ! 

And thou, the billow's queen — even thy proud 
form 
On our glad sight no more perchance may 
sv^ell ; 
Tet God alike is in fce caim and storm — 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE LASl TREE OF THE FOREST. 

Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree. 
One, where a thousand stood ! 

Well might proud tales be told by thee. 
Last of the solemn wood ! 



Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, 

With leaves yet darkly green ? 
Stillness is round, and noontide glowa — 

Tell us what thou hast seen. 

•♦ I have seen the forest shadows lie 

Where men now reap the corn ; 
I have seen the kingly chase rush by 

Through the deep glades at mom. 

" With the glance of many a gallant spear, 
And the wave of many a plume, 

And the bounding of a hundred deer. 
It has lit the woodland's gloom. 

" I have seen the knight and his train rid« 
past, 

With his banner borne on high ; 
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast 

From his gleaming panoply. 

" The pilgrim at my feet hath laid 
His palm branch 'midst the flowers. 

And told his beads, and meekly prayed* 
Kneeling, at vesper hours. 

«' And the merry men of wild and glen, 

In the green array they wore, 
Have feasted here, with the red wine's chee^ 

And the hunter's song of yore. 

" And the minstrel, resting in my shade. 

Hath made the forest ring 
With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 

Once loved by chief and king. 

" But now the noble forms are gone 

That walked the earth of old ; 
The soft wind has a mournful tone. 

The sunny light looks cold. 

" There is no glory left us now 

Like the glory -with, the dead ; 
I would that, where they slumber low, 

My latest leaves were shed ! " 

O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree, 

That mournest for the past ! 
A peasant's home in thy shades I see. 

Embowered from every blast. 

A lovely and a mirthful sound 

Of laughter meets mine ear ; 
For the poor man's children sport around 

On the tiirf, with nought to fear 



638 



MISCELLANEOUS PJEMS. 



And roses lend that cabin's wall 

A happy summer glow : 
And the open door stands free to all, 

For it recks not of a foe. 

And the village bells are on the breeze 
That stirs thy leaf, dark tree ! 

How can I mourn 'midst things like these, 
For the stormy past, with thee ! 



THE STREAMS. 

" The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 
Or chasms and watery depths ; all those have vanish'd I 
They live no longer in the faith of heaven. 
But still the heart doth need a language I" 

Coleridge's " Wallensteln." 

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods ! 
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods. 
Ye that are born of the valleys deep, 
With the water flowers on your breast asleep. 
And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 
Hallowed have been yonr waves. 

Hallowed by man, in his dreams of old, 
Unto beings not of this mortal mould — 
Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers. 
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours. 
And sought with its fancied sound to still 
The heart earth could not fiU. 

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone. 
O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were 

thrown ; 
Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea 
H£^e ye swept along, in your wanderings free, 
And thrUl'd to the murmur of many a vow — 
Where all is silent now ! 

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath 

been 
80 inked in love to your margins green ; 
That stiU, though ruined, your early shrines 
In beauty gleam through the southern vines, 
And the ivied chapels of colder skies 
On your wild banks arise. 

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth 
Are those, bright streams ! where your springs 

have birth ; 
Whether their caverned m,urmur fills. 
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, 



Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flo-w 
Is heard 'midst the hamlets low. 

Or whether ye gladden the desert sands 
With a joyous music to pilgrim bands. 
And a flash from under some ancient rock. 
Where a shepherd king might have watched hii 

flock. 
Where a few lone palm trees lift their heads, 
And a green acacia spreads. 

Or whether, in bright old lands renowned, 
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound. 
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian 

pine, 
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming; 

line. 
And the tail reeds whisper to your waves. 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lordly place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss ; 
By the rainbow glancing of insect wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer hours ; 
There the proud stag his fair image knows. 
Traced on your glass beneath alder boughs ; 
And the halcyon's breast, like the skies arrayed* 
Gleams through the willow shade. 

But the wild sweet tales that with elves and 

fays 
Peopled four banks in the olden days. 
And the memory left by departed love 
To your antique founts in glen and grove. 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams , 

Now is the time of your flowery rites 
Gone bj' with its dances and young delights : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away. 
From your chapel cells to the laughing day ; 
Low lie your altars with moss o'ergrown, 
And the woods again are lone. 

Yet holy still be your living springs. 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things ! 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore. 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more^ 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine, 
Making the heart a shrine J 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5Zb 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

* There is nothing in the wide world so like the Toice of a spirit" 

Gray's "Letters." 

I), MANV a voice is thine, thou Wind ! fuU many 

a A'oico is thine ! 
Prom every scene thy wing o'erswecps thou 

bear'st a sound and sign ; 
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a 

mastery all thine own, 
And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives 

the answering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shivered helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of 

a clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner folds, a peal of 

stormy drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 



Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 

wastes brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 

of thy track — 
The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some 

green palmy shore. 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered 

billows' roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 
mighty-rushing Wind ! 

And thou bearest all their unisons in one full 
swell combined ; 

The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hid- 
den things and free. 

Of the dim, old sounding wilderness, have lent 
their soul to thee. 

rhou art come from cities lighted up for the 

conqueror passing by, 
Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 

haughty revelry ; 
Vhe lolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings 

in the hall, 
the far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise 

and fall. 

rhou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast. 
Through the dark aisles of a thou> and years thy 

lonely wing hath passed ; 



Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy sweU, 

the stately dirge's tone. 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, &nd helm, 

to his place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, where* 

in our young days flew ; 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, 

the loved, the kind, the true ; 
Thou callest back those melodies, though now 

all changed and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not Avith music 

from the dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild Wind? these 

many notes in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount 

must surely be ; 
Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there thought 

watches, memory lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured 

through all earth's harmonies. 



THE VIGIL OF ARMS. 

A SOUNDING step was heard by night 

In a church where the mighty slept, 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

'Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walked in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud bright eye. 
For the hours were few that withheld bin 
name 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, 

With a free and stately tread ; 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay. 

The crowned and helmed that were. 
The haughty chiefs of the war array — 

Each in his sepulchre ! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 
That youth's flushed hopes could chill ; 

He moved through the trophies of buried state 
With each proud pulse throbbing still. 



1 The candidate for knighthood was under the necesau 
of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in 4 
church, and completely armed. This was called " the Vi- 
gil of Arras." 



640 MISCELLANEOUS PO EMS. 


He heard, as the wind through the chancel 
sung, 
A swell of the trumpet's breath ; , 


THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE 
ABBEY. 


He looked to the banners on high that hung, 


Heaet ! that didst press forward still,' 


And not to the dust beneath. 


Where the trumpet's note rang shrill. 




Where the knightly swords were crossing, 


And a royal mask of splendor seemed 


And the plumes like sea foam tossing. 


Before him to unfold ; 


Leader of the charging spear. 


Thx'-ough the solemn arches on it streamed, 


Fiery heart ! — and liest thou here ? 


With many a gleam of gold : 


May this narrow spot inurn 


There were crested knight, and gorgeous 


Aught that so could beat and burn ? 


dame, 


Heart ! that lov'dst the clarion's blast, 


Glittering athwart the gloom ; 


Silent is thy place at last ; 


And he followed, till his bold step came 


Silent — save when early bird 


To his warrior father's tomb. 


Sings where once the mass was heard ; 




Silent — save when breeze's moan 


But there the still and shadowy night 


Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 


Of the monumental stone. 


And the wild rose waves around thee. 


And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light 


And the long dark grass hath bound 


That over its quiet shone, 


thee, 


And the image of that sire, who died 


— Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep, 


In his noonday of renown — 


In his nameless valley deep ? 


TAese had a power unto which the pride 




Of fiery life bowed down. 


No ! brave heart ! though cold and lone. 




Kingly power is yet thine own ! 


And a spirit from his early years 


Feel I not thy spirit brood 


Came back o'er his thoughts to move. 


O'er the whispering soHtude ? 


TUl his eye was filled with memory's tears, 


Lo ! at one high thought of thee. 


And his heart with childhood's love ! 


Fast they rise, the bold, the free, 


And he looked, with a change in his softening 


Sweeping past thy lowly bed, 


^ glance. 


With a mute, yet stately tread. 


To the armor o'er the grave — 


Shedding their pale armor's light 


For there they hung, the shield and lance. 


Forth upon the breathless night, 


And the gantlet of the brave. 


Bending every warlike plume 




In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 


And the sword of many a field was there, 




With its cross for the hour of need, 


Is the noble Douglas nigh. 


When the knight's bold war cry hath sunk in 


Armed to follow thee, or die ? 


prayer. 


Now, true heart ! as thou wert wont. 


And the spear is a broken reed ! 


Pass thou to the peril's front ! 


— Hush ! did a breeze through the armor 


Where the banner spear is gleaming. 


sigh ? 


And the battle's red wine streaming, 


Did the folds of the banner shake ? 


Till the Paynim quail before thee. 


Not 80 ! — from the tomb's dark mystery 


Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee. 


There seemed a voice to break ! 


— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 




Wins me from their splendors brief; 


He had heard that voice bid clarions blow. 


Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them 


He had caught its last blessing's breath — 


not. 


'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness 


Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 


now 


Nor, amidst its lone domain. 


Had an undertone of death ! 


Call the faith in relics vain ! 


Audit said— '« The sword hath conquered kings, 




And the spear through realms hath passed ; 
But the cross, alone, of all these things, 
Might aid me at the last." 


1 "Now pass thou forward, as thou w'ert wont, and 
Douglas will follow thee, or die!" With these worda 
Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce intc mid battk 
against the Moors of Spain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5i1 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 

" The beautiful i> vanished, and returns not," 

Colesidqe's " Wallenstein." 

A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to 

roam ; 
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer ! away so fast ? 

" Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear ; 
Thy heart's Hght laughter, thy sunny hours. 
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's 
wild flowers. 

" Under the arch by our mingling made. 
Thou and thy brother have gayly played ; 
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, 
But as ye have met there — O, nevermore ! " 

On rode the youth — and the boughs among 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
" Wherefore so fast unto life away ? 
Thou art leaving forever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou mayst come to the summer woods again, 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell — 
A change must pass o'er thee. Farewell, fare- 
well ! " 

On rode the youth — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
" We have been thy playmates through many a 

day, 
Wherefore thus leave us ? — O, yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 'tis a melody passing from earth ; 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

" Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's 

glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirred, 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no 

part — 
What should it do for a burning heart ? . 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 



•' Farewell ! — when thou comest again to thine 

own. 
Thou wilt miss from our music its lovehest tone ; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell ! " 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed 
As he caught the last sounds of his nativ« 

shade ; 
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MINU 

" The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to duU life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage." BrROir, 

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes^ 
Y'e forms, to life by glorious poets brought I 

I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, 
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought 5 

'Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 

And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me! make your thrilling whispei* 
heard. 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed 
With life, and love, and many a burning word. 
That bursts from grief like lightning from « 
cloud, 
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply. 
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit mv dim haunt ! — the sound 

Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 
The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 

The poesy that with the violet's breath 
Floats through the air, ru rich and sudden 

streams, 
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep 
dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart 
ye are — 
Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal eyea 
The glory melts not as a -waning star, 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 
Bright children of the bard ! o'er this greer 

dell 
Pass once again, and light it with your spell ! 



(42 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending 

In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh ; " ' 

And thou, Cordelia ! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice ! — thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and fiute-like tone. 

And come to me ! — sing me thy willow strain, 

Sweet Desdemona ! with the sad surprise 
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though 
vain, 
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies ; 
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and 

scorn, 
As a frail hyacinth by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia ! flowers are here, 

That well might win thy footstep to the spot — 
c ale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier. 
And pansies for sad thoughts,* — but needed 
not! 
Jome with thy wreaths, and all the love and 

light 
In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong ; 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song. 

Thou, making death deep joy ! — but couldst 
thou die ? 

No ! — thy young love hath immortality ! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of 
morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone ; 
But ye, the children of the soul, were born 

Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 
And, O j-'e beautiful ! 'tis well, how well. 
In the soul's world, with you, where change is 
not, to dwell ! 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 

" A large lyre hung in an opening of 'e rock, and gave forth its 
melancholy music to the wind — but no human being was to be 
leen." S^x-atk y^ 

A DEEP-TONED lyre hung murmuring 
To the wild wind of the sea ; 

1 " Nobly he yokes 

A smiling with a sigh." — Ctmbeline. 
• " Here's pansies tor you — that's for thoughts." 

Hamlet. 



" O melancholy wind," it sighed, 
" What would thy breath with me ? 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strik'st not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

" Wind of the dark-sea waters ! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of moumfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

'• But the spell — the gift — the light- 
ning — 

Within my frame concealed. 
Must I moulder on the rock away 

With their triumphs unrevealed ? 

" I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient 
hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 

" I have pealing notes of victory 
That might welcome king's from war ; 

I have rich, deep tones to send the waU 
For a heroes death afar. 

"I have chords to lift the paean 

From the temple to the sky, 
Full as the forest unisons 

When sweeping winds are high. 

" And love — for love's lone sorrow 
I have accents that might swell 

Through the summer air with the rose' 
breath. 
Or the violet's faint farewell : 

" Soft — spiritual — mournful — 
Sighs in each note enshrined — 

But who shall call that sweetness forth? 
Thou canst not, ocean wind ! 

♦'• I pass without my glory, 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life ? 

— Wild, fitful w"nd, away ! " 

So sighed the broken music 
That in gladness had no part — 

How like art thou, neglected lyre ! 
To manv a human heart ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



6U 



TASSO'S CORONATION.' 

A crown of victory I a triumphal song / 
U, call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weiiry one may calmly sink to rest; 
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony I 

A. TRiraiPET's note is in the sky, in the glorious 

Roman sky, 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 

voice of victory ; 
There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial 

streets along, 
For again a conqueror must be crowned — ^a 

kingly child of song : 

Yet his chariot lingers, 
Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 
'Midst the joy of Rome. 

A. thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving 

wide and far. 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 

rolling car ; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given 

their wealth of flowers. 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in 

gem-like showers. 

Peace ! Within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies — 

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song — for him, 
whose rushing strain 

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 
wind o'er the main ! 

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for- 
ever there to dwell, 

A-S full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's 
holiest cell. 

Yes ! for him, the victor, 
Sing — but low, sing low ! 
A soft, sad miserere chant 
For a soul about to go ! 

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way. 
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, 
a flood of golden day ; 



' Tasso died at Rome on the day betore that appointed 
"ar his coronation in the Capito 



Streaming through every haughty arch of th« 

Caesars' past renown — 
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conquerol 

for his crown ! 

Shut the proud, bright sunshine 
From the fading sight ! 
There needs no ray by the bed cf death. 
Save the holy taper's light. 

The wreath is twined — the way is strewn — tb 

lordly train are met — 
The streets are hung with coronals — why stayi 

the minstrel yet ? 
Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a roya/ 

chief — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of 

love and grief ! 

Silence ! forth we bring him, 

In his last array 5 

From love and grief the freed, the flown— 

Way for the bier ! — make way ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

•' I HEAK thee speak of the better land, 
Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! O, where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle 
boughs r " 

— " Not there, not there, my child ! " 

" Is it where the feathery palm trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering 

seas. 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " 

— '< Not there, not there, my child ! " 

"Is it far away, in some region old. 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coraj 

strand ? — 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land ? ' 

— '< Not there, not there, my child '. 



544 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



" Eye hath, not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
It is there, it is there, my child ! " 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! 
Warrior bird ! what seek'st thou here ? 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink ? 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head ? 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
Thou, that wear'st the wings of mom ! 

Eagle ! wilt thou not arise ? 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pi-ide of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there, 
And sweet sound hath iilled the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on high ? 

— O, it can be but to die ! 

Eagle ! eagle ! thou hast bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou, that hadst ethereal birth. 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth. 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
•And the toils of death have bound thee ! 

— Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race ? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne ? 
Was thy sky's dominion lone ? 
Chill and lone it well might be, 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast, 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 

— Woe for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny ? 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 

" Nay, these wild fits of uncurbed laughter 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
Aa it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, 
Onsuited seem, and strange. 



O, nothing strange I 
Didst tliou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, 
In the sunned glimpses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness 1 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 

O gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad. 
And may be so to-morrow I " Joanha Baillie. 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old. 

Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured 

gold ; 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on hlgh^ 
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a 

gloom, 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 
It gave to the flute notes an undertone. 
To the rose a coloring not its own. 
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power -~ 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, O Mirth ! swelling on the 

shout, 
Till the temples, like echo caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine — 
All the rich voices in air were thine. 
The incense, the sunshine — but. Sadness, ihtj 

part. 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear ; 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ; 

As the gleam from a sea bird's white wing 

shed 
Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 
Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast. 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest J 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 
When the woods with the wakening of music 

ring. 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er moimtaui grass 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



6ib 



When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! O, never on earth ! 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where the storm may 

sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air : 
Ear from the breathings of changeful skies. 
Over the seas and the graves it lies ; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, 
A.nd joy reigns alone, as the loneiy sun ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH SONG. 

"Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, 
Die mit seelenvoUen melodie 
Dich entzuckteu in des Lenzes Tagen ? 
— Niir so lang sie liebten, waren sie." Scbillbx. 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away, my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone. 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendor, 
The waters changed their tone, 

And wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine, 
And where the flower-cup's glow ? 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air. 

Comes asking for the beautiful. 

And moaning, " Where, O, where ? " 

Tell of the brightness parted. 

Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 

— Are ye, too, passed away ? 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone : 
Melt from the woods, my spirit ! melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly 
llie full, rich, fervent strain ! 
69 



Hence with young love and life I go, 
In the summer's jovous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odor, 

With every precious thing. 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger, 

When the days of hope are passed, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 

And the greensward's violet breath, 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind. 
May there kn'~-" 'lought of death. 

No more, ix more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the woods. 

With summer I uepart ! 



THE DIVER. 

" They leam in luffering what they teach in song." — SilELLlk 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low. 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven ! 

The deep is a strong and a fearful hold. 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weaiy life is thine — 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure grots for thee may shine, 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free, 
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away. 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,. 
Well are the death signs read — 



546 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek, 
Ere hope and power be lied ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee ? 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
♦• A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed 

Tor that pale, quivering ray ! " 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought . 

— And are not those like thee. 
Who win for earth the gems of thought ? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go. 
Where the passion fountains burn, 

Gathering the j ewels far below 
From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava veins the fire 
That o'er bright words is poured ; 

Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 
A spirit in each chord. 

But O, the price of bitter tears 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly-glorious dower ! 

Like flower seeds, by the wild wind spread. 

So radiant thoughts are strewed ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed 

May faint in solitude ! 

And who will think when the strain is sung 
Till a thousand ht trts are stirred. 

What lifedrops, from the minstrel wrung, 
Have gushed with every word ? 

None, none ! — his treasures live Uke thine. 

He strives and dies like thee ; — 
Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS. 

" lies poetes, don'i rimaginai-on tient la puissance d'aimer et de 
VDnffrir, ne Bont-ila pas les bannis 'Vune antre region ? " 

Madame .is S^ael — "De L' AUemagne." 

Xo tears for thee ! though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one ! 
No tears for thee ! 



They that loved an exUe, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourn 
O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weep- 
ing skies 
Some half-remembered strain of paradise 
Might sadly sound. 

Hast thou been answered? — thou, that from 

the night. 
And from the voices of the tempest's might, 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking stUl some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast ! — 

Hast thou been answered ? — thou, that through 

the gloom, 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send, 
So passionate and deep ? — to pierce, to move, 
To win back token of unburied love 

From buried friend ! 

And hast thou found where living waters burst ? 
Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst 

Of fever dreams ! 
Are the true fountains thine forevermore ? 
O, lured so long by shining mists that wore 

The light of streams ! 

Speak ! is it well with thee ? We call, as thou. 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled 
brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed ! Art thou blessed and free ? 
— Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all ! 

Yet shall our hope rise, fanned by quenchless 

faith, 
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath, 

In Hght upsprings : 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the 

sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought 
On morning's wings. 

And we will dream it is thy joy w e hear. 
When life's young music, ringing far and cfear 
O'erflows the sky 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


64 


No tears for thee ! the lingering gleam is ours — 


Kich thoughts »nd ■sad, like faded rose le 


csvea^ 


■fhou art for converse with all glorious powers, 


heaping 




Never to die ! 


In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 




Or pass as if thy spirit notes came sighing 






From worlds beneath some blue Elysian 


sky; 


TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 


Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th 
dying — 


un« 


" Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti I 


Of joy no more — bewildering harmony 




Eisvegliate in vano '1 cor che non p>^ lJi>«r»«i.' 






Whehefore and whither bear'at tliou up my 






spirit, 


SECOND SIGHT. 




On eagle wings, through &\9^^y plume that 






thrill ? 


" Ne'er erred the prophet heart that grief inspiied, 






Though joy's illusions mock their votarist."— MatcbM I 


It hath no crown of victorY ^o ^herit — 






Be stUl, triumphant harixif*ny ! be still ! 


A MOURNFUL gift is mine, friends ! 
A mournful gift is mine ! 




"•Tiine are no sonn<*i Vt earth, thus proudly 


A murmur of the soul which blends 




swellinsj 


With the flow of song and wine. 




Into rich flood? of joy. It is but pain 






To mount »o h-gh, yet find on high no dwell- 


An eye that through the triumph's hour 




ing. 


Beholds the coming woe. 




I'o sink po fast, so heavily again ! 


And dwells upon the faded flower 
'Midst the rich summer's glow. 




No sounds for earth ? Yes, to young chieftain 






dying 


Ye smile to view fair faces bloom 




On his own battle field, at set of sun, 


Where the father's board is spread ; 




With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, 


I see the stillness and the gloom 




Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guer- 


Of a home whence all are fled. 




don won. 


I see the withered garlands lie 




Wo sounds for earth ? Yes, for the martyr, lead- 


Forsaken on the earth. 




ing 


While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers 


fly 


Unto victorious death serenely on ; 


Through the ringing hall of mirth. 




For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding. 






Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 


I see the blood-red future stain 
On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 




But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 


And the bier amidst the bridal train 




Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 


When they come with roses dressed. 




For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous 






greeting. 


I hear the still small moan of time 




Thou wak'st lone thirst — be hushed, exult- 


Through the ivy branches made, 




ing strain ! 


Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 
With the sunshine stands arrayed. 




Be hushed, or breathe of grief ! — of exile yearn- 






ings 


The thunder of the seas I hear, 




Under the wiUows of the stranger shore ; 


The shriek along the wave. 




Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burn- 


When the bark sweeps forth.^nd song and chea | 


ings 


Salute the parting brave. 




For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no mare. 


With every breeze a spirit sends 




Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 


To me some warning sign, — 




Through the night hours, o'er wasted wealth 


A mournful gift is mine, friends ! 




to pine ; 


A mournful gift is mine ! 





O prophet heart ! thy grief, thy power 

To all deep souls belong — 
The shadow in the sunny hour, 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

Their sight is all too sadly clear — 

For them a veil is riven ; 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but in heaven. 



THE SEA BIRD FLYING INI,AND. 

" Thj path is not as mine ; where thou art blessed 
My spirit would but wither ; mine own grief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing 
Than all thy happiness." 

Hath the summer's breath, on the south wind 

borne, 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn ? 
Hath it lured thee, bird ! from their sounding 

caves 
To the river shores where the osier waves ? 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, 

Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a 

cell? 
Where the moss bears print of the wild deer's 

tread. 
And the heath like a royal robe is spread ? 

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 
With the dancing of waters through copse and 

dell. 
And the bee's low tune in the foxglove's bell. 

Thou hast done well : O, the seas are lone. 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful 

tone 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells, 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells. 

The proud bird rose as the words were said — 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head. 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright dis- 
dain. 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's 

breast. 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest. 
0, who shall say to a spirit free — 
'• There lies the pathway of bliss for thee " ? 



THE SLEEPER. 

O, LIGHTLY, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed. 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from heaven, 

A gracious dewy cloud, 
A covering mantle given 

The weary to enshroud. 

O, lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere the pale still brow, 
The meekly-drooping head, 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do. 
That call the slumberer back 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim, faded track. 

Her soul is far away, 

In her childhood's land perchance, 
Where her young sisters play. 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 

Her spirit haply weaves ; 
A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 
Long may her sojourn be 

In the music land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled, 

Each lost one still more fair — 
O, lightly, lightly tread ! 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL 

O DIM, forsaken mirror ! 
How many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours 
Of the wine cup and the song 

The song hath left no echo ; 

The bright vsdne hath been quafled ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. M 


And hushed is every silvery voice 


And e'en for this I call thee blessed. 


That lightly here hath laughed. 


The gentle poet's child ! 


mirror — lonely mirror ! 





Thou of the silent hall ! 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's 


THE STAR OF THE MINE. 


bloom — 


From the deep chambers of a mine, 


Is this, too, vanished all ? 


With heavy gloom o'erspread. 




I saw a star at noontide shine 


It is, with the scattered garlands 


Serenely o'er my head. 


Of triumphs long ao;o, 




With the melodies of buried lyres, 


I had not seen it 'midst the glow 


With the faded rainbow's glow. 


Of the rich upper day ; 


■ 


But in that shadowy world below 


And for all the gorgeous pageants — 


How my heart blessed its ray ! 


For the glance of gem and plume, 




For lamp, and harp, and rosy -wTeath, 


And still, the farther from my sight 


• id vase of rich perfume — 


Torches and lamps were borne, 




The purer, lovelier, seemed the light 


Now, dim, forsaken mirror ! 


That wore its beams unshorn. 


Thou giv'st but faintly back 


• 


The quiet stars, and the sailing moon 


0, what is like that heavenly spark ? 


On her solitary track. 


— A friend's kind, steadfast eye ; 




Where, brightest when the world grows darK 


And thus with man's proud spirit 


Hope, cheer, and comfort lie ! 


Thou tellest me 'twill be, 




When the forms and hues of this world 





fade 




From his memory, as from thee : 


WASHINGTON'S STATUE 


And his heart's long-troubled waters 


SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA 


At last in stillness lie. 
Reflecting but the images 

Of the soleimi world on high. 


Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 

On thy proud soil, thou western world ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 




O'er freedom's flag unfurled. 




There, as before a shrine, to bow. 




Bid thy true sons their children lead ; 


rO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD 
BARTON, 


The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 


THE aUAKER POET. 


The spirit reared in patriot fight. 




The virtue born of home and hearth, ! 


Happy thou art, the child of one 


There calmly throned, a holy light | 


Who in each lowly flower, 


Shall pour o'er chairiless earth. 


Each leaf that glances to the sun, 




Or trembles with the shower ; 


And let that work of England's hand. 




Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 


In each soft shadow of the sky, 


So girt with tranquil glory stand 


Or sparkle of the stream, 


For ages on thy shore ! 


WJll guide tby kindling spirit's eye 
To trace the Love Supreme. 


Such, through aU time, the greetings be. 




That with th' Atlantic billow sweep ! 


So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, 


Telling the mighty and the free 


A joy in wood and wild ; 


Of brothers o'er the deep. 



A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA. 

"WRITTEN FOK MUSIC. 

'Tis lone on the waters 
When eve's mournful bell 

Sends forth to the sunset 
A note of farewell ; 

When, borne with the shado'w-s 
And winds as they sweep, 

There comes a fond memory 
Of home o'er the deep ; 

When the wing of the sea bird 

Is turned to her nest, 
And the thought of the sailor 

To all he loves best ! 

'Tis lone on the waters — 

That hour hath a spell 
To bring back sweet toices. 

With words of farewell ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER- 
IN-LAW. 

VTb miss thy voice while early flowers are blow- 
ing, 
And the first blush of blossom clothes each 
bough. 
And the spring sunshine round our home is 
glowing 
Soft as thy smile ; thou shouldst be with us 
now. 

With us? Wo wrong thee by the earthly thought ; 

Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, 
Well might the glories of this world seem nought 

To the one promise given the pure in heart. 

Yet wert thou blessed e'en here — O, ever blessed 
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil 
faith ! 
rhe silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast 
Needed but guarding from all change, by 
death. 

So is it sealed to peace ! On thy clear brow 
Nevai was care one fleeting shade to cast ; 

Ard thy calm days in brightness were to flow 
A holy stream, untroubled to the last. 

Farewell ! thy life hath left surviving love 
A wealth of records, and sweet " feelings given," 



From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove 
Ly whispers breathing " less of earth thai 
neaven." ' 
Tnus rests thy spirit still on those vdth whom 

Thy step the path of joyous duty trode. 
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb, 
Where chastened thought may offer praise U 
God. 



TO AN ORPHAN. 

Thou hast been reared too tenderly, 

Beloved too well and long. 
Watched by too many a gentle eye : 

Now look on life — be strong ! 

Too quiet seemed thy joys for change, 

Too holy and too deep ; 
Bright clouds, through summer skies that rangOi 

Seem ofttimes thus to sleep, — 

To sleep in silvery stillness bound, 

As things that ne'er may melt ; 
Yet gaze again — no trace is found 

To show thee where they dwelt. 

This world hath no more love to give 
Like that which thou hast known ; 

Yet the heart breaks not — we survive 
Our treasures — and bear on. 

But O, too beautiful and blessed 

Thy home of youth hath been ! 
Where shall thy wing, poor bird ! find rest. 

Shut out from that sweet scene ? 

Kind voices from departed years 

Must haunt thee many a day ; 
Looks that will smite the source of tears 

Across thy soul must play. 

Friends — now the altered or the dead, 

And music that is gone, 
A- gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, 

And thou shalt wake — alone. 

Alone ! it is in that deep word 

That all thy sorrow lies ; 
How is the heart to courage stirred 

By smUes from kindred eyes ! 



1 Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but ui Imku 
before her death : — 

/ " Some feelings are to mortals given \ 

V With less of earth in them than heaven." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



65l 



iLnd are these lost ? — and have I said 

To aught like thee — Be strong ? 
— So bid the willow lift its head, 

And brave the tempest's wrong ! 

rhou reed ! o'er which the storm hath passed ■ 

Thou shaken with the wind ! 
On one, one friend thy weakness cast — 

There is but One to bind ! 



HYMN BY THE SICK BED OF A 
MOTHER. 

Father! that in the olive shade, 
"When the dark hour came on, 
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, 
Strengthen thy Son ; 

O, by the anguish of that night, 

Send us down blessed relief ; 
Or to the chastened, let thy might 
Hallow this grief! 

And Thou, that when the starry sky 

Saw the dread strife begun, 
Didst teach adoring faith to cry, 
" Thy will be done ; " 

By thy meek spirit, Thou of all 

That e'er have mourned the chief — 
Thou Savior ! if the stroke must fall. 

Hallow this grief ! o / 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 

eONO OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 

I A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, 
md called upon to admire its beauty, only replied — "The 
•ta — where is it 7"] 

Where is the sea ? — I languish here — 

Where is my own blue sea. 
With all its barks in fleet career, 

And flags, and breezes free ? 

I miss that voice ot waves which first 

Awoke my childhood's glee ; 
The measured chime — the thundering burst — 

Where is my own blue sea ? 

O, rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 
Soft, soft your winds may be ; 



Yet my sick heart within me dies — 
Where is my own blue sea ? 

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, 
I hear the whispering tree ; 

The echoes of my soul are mute, 
— Where is ray own blue sea ? 



To MY OWN PORTRAIT. 

How is it that before mine eyes. 

While gazing on thy mien, 
AU my past years of life arise, 

As in a mirror seen ? 
What spell within thee hath been shrined 
To image back my own deep mind ^ 

Even as a song of other times 

Can trouble memory's springs ; 
Even as a sound of vesper chimes 

Can wake departed things ; 
Even as a scent of vernal flowers 
Hath records fraught with vanished hours, — 

Such power is thine ! They come, the dead, 

From the grave's bondage free, 
And smiling back the changed are led 

To look in love on thee ; 
And voices that are music flown 
Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppresa — 
The thoughts of happier years — 

And a vain gush of tenderness 
O'erflows in childlike tears ; 

A passion which I may not stay, 

A sudden fount that must have way. 

But thou, the while — O, almost strange, 

Mine imaged self ! it seems 
That on thy brow of peace no change 

Reflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in thy face. 

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep 

Aff'ection, Memory, Grief — 
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 

O'er a frail aspen leaf! 
O that the quiet of thine eye 
Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 

Yet look thou still serenely on. 
And if sweet *riends there be 



S52 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



That when my song and soul are gone 

Shall seek my form in thee, — 
Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 
To flee away and be at rest ! 



NO MORE. 

Jfo miyp. ! A harpstring's deep and breaking tone, 

A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone, 

'♦'•eathe through those words — those mur- 
mers of farewell — 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

lo feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 
No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! To greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend. 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 
No more ! 

rhrough woods that shadowed our first years to 
rove. 
With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love. 
And turn, and read our own heart's answer 
there — 

No more ! 

Words of despair ! — yet earth's, all earth's the 

woe 

Their passion breathes — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in heaven — O, image then the flow 

Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep — 

No more ! 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 
To see the beautiful from life depart. 

To wear impatiently a secret chain, 
To waste the untold riches of the heart — 
No more ! 

rhrough long, long years to seek, to strive, to 
yearn 
For human love * — and never quench that 
thii'st ; 

i " Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aime eomme j'aime ! " was a 
Bournfel ^xpressi'Mi of Madame de Stael's. 



To pour the soul out, winning no return, 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 
No more I 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 
To mourn the changed, the far away, thi 
dead; 
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 
No more ! ; 

Words of triumphant music ! Bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air ; 
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are 
done. 
To learn in joy — to struggle, to despair — 
No more ! 



THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET. 

Where shall 1 find, in all this fleeting earth, 
This world of changes and farewells, a friend 

That will not fail me in his love and worth. 
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end ? 

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest — 
Long on vain idols its devotion shed ; 

Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, 
And some deceived, and some are with tho 
dead. 

But thou, my Savior ! thou, my hope and trust, 
Faithful art thou when friends and joys de- 
part ; 
Teach me to lift these j'-earnings from the dust, 
And fix on thee, th' Unchanging One, mj 
heart ! 



PASSING AWAY. 

* FasBing away is written on the world, and all tha vmM 
contains." 

It is written on the rose. 

In its glory's full array ; 
Read what those buds disclose — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the ■ikies 

Of the soft blue summer day ; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes — 
"Passing away." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



65% 



It is written on the trees, 

As their young leaves glistening play, 
And on brighter things than these — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
lives, burns, and triximphs now — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on tne heart ; 
Alas ! that there Decay 
Should claim from Love a part — 
" Passing away." 

Friends, friends ! — O, shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 
Pass not away ? 

Shall we know each other's eyes. 

And the thoughts that in them lay 
When we mingled sympathies 
away" ? 



O, if this may be so. 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
How blest from earth's vain show 
To pass away ! 



l-HE ANGLER.' 

•• Hn these flowery meads would be ; 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice ; 

And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave." 

IzAAE Walton-. 

rHOU that hast loved so long ana well 

The vale's deep, quiet streams, 
Where the pure water lilies dwell. 

Shedding forth tender gleams ; 
And o'er the pool the May fly's wing 
Glances in golden eves of spring ! 

O, lone and lovely haunts are thine ! 

Soft, soft the river flows, 
Wearing the shadow of thy line, 

The gloom of alder boughs : 

I This, and the following poem, were originally written 
for a work entitled DeaUi's Doings, edited by Mr. Alaric 
Watts. 

70 



And in the midst a richer hue, 

One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. 

And there but low sweet sounds are heard 

The whisper of the reed. 
The plashing trout, the rustling bird, 

The scythe upon the mead ; 
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 
There steals a step which mortals fear. 

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave 

At noon his panting breast ; 
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave 

Seeking her sedgy nest ; 
The air is filled with summer's breath. 
The young flowers laugh — yet look ! tL 
Death ! 

But if, where silvery currents rove, 
Thy heart, grown still and sage, 

Hath learned to read the words of love 
That shine o'er nature's page ; 

If holy thoughts thy guests have been 

Under the shade of wiUows green • 

Then, lover of the silent hour 

By deep lone waters passed ! 
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power 

To cheer thee through the last ; 
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
Mayst calmly bid thy streams farewell. 



DEATH AND THE W^ARRIOR. 

" Ay, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 
I am the lord of the lonely tomb, 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that griel : 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, 

Narrow, and cold, and chill ! " 

" Was the voice I heard thy voice, O Death I 

And is thy day so near ? 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer ' 



654 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



' Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

XJni^er the Syrian sky. 

•' High hearts shall burn in the royal hall 
When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall, — 
Death, Death, I fear thee not ! " 

" Warrior ! thou bear'st a haughty heart. 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victory's tide ? 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands. 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

" It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some deep Paynim hold ; 
I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains 

Wherewith to tame the bold ! " 

Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest. 
If this indeed must be ; 
But the Cross is bound upon my breast. 
And I may not shrink for thee ! 

" Sound, clarion ! sound ! — for my vows are 
given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
t bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death ! — and not to thine ! " 



SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL. 

O, IP thou wilt not give thine heart, 

Give back my own to me ; 
For if in thine I have no part, 

Why should mine dwell with thee ? ' 

Yet no ! this mournful love of mine 

I will not from me cast ; 
Let me but dream 'twill win me thine 

By its deep truth at last ! 

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live 
Through years without reply ? 

» The first verse of this song is a literal translation from 
■m German. 



- 0, if thy heart thou wilt not givei 
Give me a thought, a sigh 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY, 

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WBO I>IED IN THE CAU8B, 
AND LAMENTED BV TUB PEOFLE, OF OBEEOK. 

" Time cannot teach forgetfulncss, 
When griers full heart is fed by fame." — Btbon; 

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately 

pines, 
And with th' ancestral trophies of thy race ; 
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and 

shrines 
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place ! 
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been 

spread. 
Thou bright young stranger 'midst the mighty 

dead ' 

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given. 

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, 

Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven. 
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave : 

And thy dust blends with mould heroic there. 

With all that sanctifies th' inspiring air 

Vain voice of fame ! sad sound for those ihrt 
weep ! 
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone 
Thy childhood dwells — whose thoughts a rec- 
ord keep 
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone ; 
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth — 
A vernal promise, faded now from earth ! 

But a bright memory claims a proud regret — 
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs 

Of healing balm ; and she hath treasures yet 
Whose soul can number with love's holy 
things 

A name like thine ! Now, past all cloud or spot, 

A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. 



THE BROKEN CHAIN. 

I AM free ! — I have burst through my galling 

chain. 
The life of young eagles is mine again ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



fi5d 



I may clecve with my bark the glad sounding 

seaj 
I may rove where the wind roves — my path is 

free ! 

The streams dash in joy down the summer 

hill, 
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, 
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze, — 
And is not my spirit as one of these ? 

O, the green earth with its wealth of flowers, 

And the voices that ring through its forest bow- 
ers. 

And the laughing glance of the founts that 
shine, 

Lighting the valleys — all, all are mine ! 

I may urge through the desert my foaming 

steed, 
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed ; 
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee — 
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free ! 

Captive ! and hast thou then rent thy chain ? 
Art thou free in the wilderness, firee on the 

main? 
Yes ! there thy spirit may proudly soar. 
But must thou not mingle with throngs the 

more? 

The bird, when he pineth, may hush his song 
Till the hour when his heart shall again be 

strong ; 
But thou — canst thou turn in thy woe aside, 
\nd weep, 'midst thy brethren ■' No, not for 

pride. 

May the fiery word from thy lip find way 
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring 

to day ? 
May the care that sits in thy weary breast 
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest ? 

No ! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, 
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn ; 
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see. 
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou'rt 
ixee. 

No ! thou art chained till thy race is run. 

By the power of all in the soul of one ; 

On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter 

be — 
Dreamer ! fond dreamer ! O, who is free ? 



THE SHADOW OF A FLOWEE. 

" La voila telle que la mort nous I'a faite."— BossuiT. 

[" Never was a philosophical imagination more beautifii 
than that exquisite one of KIrclier, Digby, and others, who 
discovered in the ashes of plants tlieir primitive forms, 
which were again raised up by the power of lieat. The 
ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in rosea, unsub- 
stantial and unodoriferous ; they are not roses which grow 
on rose trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like appari- 
tions, they are seen but for a la ment." — Curiosities of Lit- 
erature.] 

'TwAS a dream of olden days 

That Art, by some strange powex, 

The visionary form could raise 
From the ashes of a flower. 

That a shadow of the rose, 
By its own meek beauty bowed, 

Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, 
Like pictures in a cloud. 

Or the hyacinth, to grace, 

As a second rainbow, spring ; 
Of summer's path a dreary trace, 

A fair, yet mournful thing ! 

For the glory of the bloom 

That a flush around it shed, 
And the soul within, the rich perfum*. 

Where were they ? Fled, aU fled I 

Nought but the dim, faint line 
To speak of vanished hours. — 

Memory ! what are joys of thine ? 
— Shadows of buried flowers ! 



LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING 
ON A SKULL. 

Ceeature of air and light ! 
Emblem of that which will not fade or die I 

"Wilt thou not speed thy flight, 
To chase the south wind through the glowing 
sky ? 

"What lures thee thus to stay 

"With sUence and decay, 
Fixed on the wreck of cold mortality ? 

The thoughts once chambered theiv 
Have gathered up their treastires, and are gone 
Will the dust tell thee where 



556 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


That -which hath burst the prison house is flown ? 


The laughing sunshine hath not looked 


Rise, nursling of the day ! 


Into thy secret cave. 


If thou wouldst trace its way — 




Earth has no voice to make the secret known. " 


Thy current makes no music — 




A hollow sound we hear. 


Who seeks the vanished bird 


A muflled voice of mystery, 


Near the deserted nest and broken shell ? 


And know that thou art near. 


Far thence, by us unheard. 




He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell: 


No brighter line of verdure 


Thou of the sur.shine born, 


Follows thy lonely way ; 


Take the bright wings of morn ! 


No fairy moss or lily's cup 


Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruined 


Is freshened by thy play. 


cell. 






The halcyon doth not seek thee, 




Her glorious wings to lave ; 


THE BELL AT SEA. 


Thou know'st no tint of the stunmer 


[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast 


sky. 


rf Forfarshire, used formerly to be marked only by a bell. 


Thou dark and hidden wave ! 


which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the 




waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse 


Yet once will day behold thee, 


has since been erected there.] 






When to the mighty sea. 


When the tide's billowy swell 


Fresh bursting from their cavemed veins, 


Had reached its height. 


Leap thy lone waters free. 


Then tolled the rock's lone bell 




Sternly by night. 


There wilt thou greet the sunshine 




For a moment, and be lost. 


Far over cliff and surge 


With all thy melancholy sounds, 


Swept the deep sound. 


In the ocean's billowy host. 


Making each wild wind's dirge 




Still more profound. 


0, art thou not, dark river ! 




Like the fearful thoughts untold 


Yet that funereal tone 


Which haply, in the hush of night. 


The sailor blessed, 


O'er many a soul have rolled ? 


Steering through darkness on 




With fearless breast. 


Those earth-born strange misgivings — 




Who hath not felt their power ? 


E'en so may we, that float 


Yet who hath breathed them to his friendi 


On life's wide sea. 


E'en in his fondest hour ? 


Welcome each warning note, 




Stem though it be ! ^ 


They hold no heart communion, 




They find no voice in song, 




They dimly follow far from earth 




The grave's departed throng. 


THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM. 




" Thou stream, 


Wild is their course and lonely. 


Whose Bource is inaccessibly profound, 


And fruitless in man's breast ; 


Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
— Thou imagest my life." 


They come and go, and leave no trace 




Of their mysterious guest. 


Dakklt thou glidest onward. 




Thou deep and hidden wave ! 






Yet surely must their wanderings 




At length be like thy way ; 


1 It may be scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that 
the stealing of this bell by a pirate forms the subject of 


Their shadows, as thy waters, lost 


Bauthey's spirited ballad, ' The Inchcape Rock." 


In one bright flood of day I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ' 6S7 




EVER-JOYOUS band 


THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 


Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 


"For we are many in our solitudes." — Lament of Tasso. 


On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 




Fixed in undying lines ! 


A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 




Were gathered in one spot ; 


Tlaou, with the sculptured bowl, 


The dwellers of a thousand homes — 


And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 


Yet 'midst them voice was not. 


And thou, from whose young lip and flute th« 




soul 


The soldier and his chief were there — 


Of music seems to breathe ; 


The mother and her child : 




The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 


And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 


None spoke — none moved — none smiled. 


Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 




And clustered fruitage, born of sunny hours, 


There lovers met, between whose lives 


Under Italian skies ; 


Years had swept darkly by ; 




After that heartsick hope deferred, 


Ye, that a thousand springs, 


They met — but silently. 


And leafy summers with their odorous breath. 




May yet outlast, what do ye there, bright things! 


You might have heard the rustling leafj 


Mantling the place of death ? 


The breeze's faintest sound. 




The shiver of an insect's wing. 


Of sunlight and soft air, 


On the thick-peopled ground. 


And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 




Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 


Your voice to whispers would have died 


Why thus, where dust hath been i 


For the deep quiet's sake ; 




Your tread the softest moss have sought, 


Is it to show how slight 


Such stillness not to break. 


The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 




Music and silence, roses and the blight, 


What held the countless multitude 


Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 


Bound in that spell of peace ? 




flow could the ever-sounding life 


Or, when the father laid 


Amid so many cease ? 


Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep. 




When the friend visited the c^^jress shade 


Was it some pageant of the air — 


Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 


Some glory high above, 




That linked and hushed those human souls 


Say if the mourners sought, 


In reverential love ? 


In these rich images of summer mirth. 




These wine cups and gay wreaths, to lose th« 


Or did some bvirdening passion's weight 


thought 


Hang on their indrawn breath ? 


Of our last hour on earth ? 


Awe — the pale awe that freezes words ? 




Fear — the strong fear of death ? 


Ye have no voice, no sound. 




Ye flutes and lyres ! to tell me what I seek : 


A mightier thing — Death, Death himself 


Silent ye are, light forms with vine leavet 


Lay on each lonely heart ! 


crowned. 


Kindred were there — yet hermits all. 


Yet to my soul ye speak. 


Thousands — but each apart. 






Alas ! for those that lay 




Down in the dust without their liope of old ! 




Backward they looked on life's rich banquet day, 


THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 


But all beyond was cold. 


l'* Les sarcnphages mgme chez les anciens, ne rapellent 


Every sweet wood note then. 


fue des idees guerriires ou riantes : on voit des jeux, des 


danses, representes en bas-relief sur les tombeaux." — Co- 


And through the olane trees every sunbeam's 


•inne.} 


. glow. 



558 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 


But rest more sweet and stiU 


Made it more hard to go. 


Than ever nightfall gave, 




Our yearning hearts shall fill 


But we, -when life grows dim, 


In the world beyond the grave. 


When its last melodies float o'er our way. 




Its changeful hues before us faintly swim. 


There shall no tempest blow, 


Its flitting lights decay ; 


No scorching noontide heat ; 




There shall be no more snow,' 


E'en though we bid farewell 


No weary, wandering feet. 


Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, 




Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell 


So we lift our trusting eyes 


'Midst brighter things than these ; 


From the hills our fathers trode, 




To the quiet of the skies. 


And think of deathless flowers, 


To the Sabbath of our God. 


And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 




And know the while, how little dream of ours 


Come to the sunset tree ! 


Can shadow forth of heaven. 


The day is past and gone ; 




The woodman's axe lies free, 




And the reaper's work is done. 


EVENING SONG OF THE TYEOLESE 




PEASANTS.' 




Come to the sunset tree ! 




The day is past and gone ; 




The woodman's axe lies free, 


THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 


And the reaper's work is done. 




. 


FoKGET them not ! — though now theix 


The twilight star to heaven. 


name 


And the summer dew to flowers, 


Be but a mournful sound, 


And rest to us, is given 


Though by the hearth its utterance claim 


By the cool, soft evening hours. 


A stillness round. 


Sweet is the hour of rest ! 


Though for their sake this earth no moio 


Pleasant the wind's low sigh. 


As it hath been may be. 


And the gleaming of the west. 


And shadows, never marked before, 


And the turf whereon we lie ; 


Brood o'er each tree ; 


When the burden and the heat 


And though their image dim the sky, 


Of labor's task are o'er, 


Yet, yet forget them not ! 


And kindly voices greet 


Nor, where their love and life went by, 


The tired one at his door. 


Forsake the spot ! 


Come to the sunset tree ! 


They have a breathing influence there, 


The day is past and gone ; 


A charm, not elsewhere found ; 


The woodman's axe lies free, 


Sad — yet it sanctifies the air. 


And the reaper's work is done 


The stream, the ground. 


Yes ! tuneful is the sound 


Then, though the wind an altered tone 


That dwells in whispering boughs ; 


Through the young foliage bear. 


Welcome the freshness round. 


Though every flower of something gone 


And the gale that fans our brows ! 


A tinge may wear ; • 


1 The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come 


" Wolil ihm, er ist hingegangen 


to the sunset tree." — See Captain Sheher's interesting 


Wo kein schiioe nielir ist." 


Mbtes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany 


Schiixer's JVadoioesneJit ToiUnkUgt 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



569 



O, fly it not ! "No fruitless grief, 

Thus In their presence felt, 
A. record links to every leaf 

There, where they dwelt. 

8till trace the path -which knew their tread. 

Still tend their garden bower. 
Still commune with the holy dead 

In each lone hour ! 

The hoi;/ dead ! — O, blessed we are, 

That we may call them so. 
And to their image look afar 

Through all our woe ! 

Blessed, that the things they loved on earth 

As relics we may hold. 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 

By springs untold ! 

Blessed, that a deep and chastening power 

Thus o'er our souls is given. 
If but to bird, or song, or flower, 

Yet all for heaven ! , 



HE WALKED WITH GOD, 

GENESIS V. XXIV. 

" These two little pieces," (" He walked with Gfod," and 
" The Rod of Aarnn,") says the author in one of her letters, 
• are part of a rollection I think of forming, to be called Sa- 
ired Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and 
to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, 
V those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." Two 
ijthers (" Tlie Voice of God " and " The Fountain of Ma- 
nh ") are subjoined, as having been probably intended to 
Torin a part of the same series.] 

He walked with God, in holy joy, 

While yet his days were few ; 
The deep, glad spirit of the boy 

To love and reverence grew. 
Whether, each nightly star to count, 

The ancient hills he trode. 
Or sought the flowers by stream and fount — 

Alike he walked with God. 

The graver noon of manhood came, 

The full of cares and fears : 
One voice was in his heart — the same 

It heard through childhood's years. 
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and Sjwains, 

O'er his green-pasture sod, 
A shepnerd king on Eastern plains — 

The patriarch v alked with God. 



And calmly, brightly that pure life 

Melted from earth away ; 
No cloud it knew, no parting strife, 

No sorrowful decay : 
He bowed him not, like all beside, 

Unto the spoiler's rod, 
But joined at once the glorified, 

Where angels walk with God ! 

So let us walk ! The night must come 

To us that comes to all ; 
We through the darkness must go homCk 

Hearing the trumpet's call. 
Closed is the path forevermore 

Which without death he trode ; 
Not so that way, wherein of yore 

His footsteps walked with God ! 



THE ROD OF AARON. 

NUMBERa XVII. VIII. 

Was it the sigh of the southern gale 
That flushed the almond bough ? 

Brightest and first the young spring to hail. 
Still its red blossoms glow. 

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers 

With a kindling look of love ? 
O, far and deep, and through hidden bower's, 

That smile of heaven can rove ! 

No ! from the breeze and the living light 

Shut was the sapless rod ; 
But it felt in the stiUness a secret might, 

And thrilled to the breath of God. 

E'en so may that breath, like the vernal !ur, 

O'er our glad spirits move ; 
And all such things as are good and fair 

Be the blossoms, its track that prove ! 



THE VOICE OF GOD. 

" I heard thy Toice in the garden, and I was afraid."— Ok*. HI U 

Amidst the thrilling leaves. Thy voice 

At evening's fall drew near ; 
Father ! and did not man rejoice 

That blessed sound to hear ? 



kdO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Did not hia heart within him burn, 
Touched by the solemn tone ? 

Not so ! — for, never to return, 
Its purity was gone. 

Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower. 

His spirit shook with dread, 
And called the cedars, in tnat hour, 

To veU. his conscious head. 

O, in each wind, each fountain flow. 

Each whisper of the shade, 
Grant me, my God ! thy voice to know, 

And not to be afraid ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. 

" And when they came to Manih, they could not drink of the 
•raters of Marah, for they were bitter. 

" And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall 
we drink? 

" And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, 
irhich when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made 
sweet"— Exodus xv. 23-25. 

Where is the tree the prophet threw 

Into the bitter wave ? 
Left it no scion where it grew. 

The thirsting soul to save ? 

Hath nature lost the hidden power 

Its precious foliage shed ? 
Is there no distant Eastern bower 

With such sweet leaves o'erspread. 

Nay, wherefore ask ? — since gifts are ours 

Which yet may well imbue 
Earth's many-troubled founts with showers 

Of heaven's own balmy dew. 

O, mingled with the cup of grief 

Let faith's deep spirit be ! 
And every prayer shall win a leaf 

From that blessed healing tree ! 



THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 

ST. LUKE VII. XXXVII-IX. 

Thou that with pallid cheek, 

And eyes in sadness meek, 
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground. 

From thy long wanderings won, 

Before the all-healing Son, 
Did' St bow thee to the earth — O lost and found ! 



When thou wouldst bathe i is teet 

With odors richly sweet. 
And many a shower of woman's burning tear, 

And dry them with that hair, 

Brought low the dust to wet.r. 
From the crowned beauty of its festal yeur, — 

Did he reject thee then. 

While the sharp scorn of men 
On thy once bright and stately bead wa^i Chst ? 

No ! from the Savior's mien 

A solemn light serene 
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. 

For thee their smiles no more 

Familiar faces wore ; 
Voices, once kind, had lean.ed the stranger't 
tone : 

Who raised thee up, and bound 

Thy silent spirit's wound ? — 
He, from all guilt the stainless, he alone ! 

But which, O erring child. 

From home so long beguiled ! — 
Which of thine offerings won thos3 words oi 
Heaven, 

That o'er the bruisfed reed. 

Condemned of earth to bleed. 
In music passed, "Thy sins are aU fa3f given " 'i 

Was it that perfume, fraught 

With balm and incense, brought 
From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest ? 

Or that fast-flowing rain 

Of tears, which not in vain, 
To TTim who scorned not tears, thy woes con- 
fessed ? 

No ! not by these restored 

Unto thy Father's board, 
Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, WM made ; 

But, costlier in his eyes, 

By that blessed sacrifice, 
Thy heart, thy fuU deep heart, before him laid- 



THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 

ON CHAKTBBY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CAIHEDBAI. 

[" The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to 
the memory of tlie two children of Mrs. Robiiisonj is one of 
the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given 
a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feel- 
ings, and admires and is touched only at their bidding 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



561 



might have thought, from any previous experience, that it 
was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument 
is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The 
two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in 
each otiier's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleep- 
ing:— 

' But something lies 
Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.' 

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that 
infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching 
interest ; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the 
.incertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadow- 
ing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened 
— their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if 
they might still be recalled — all conspire to render the last 
feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply alfect- 
ing. They were the only children of their mother, and she 
was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father 
hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one 
of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to dis- 
tract the attention from it, or weaken its effecl. It may be 
contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that 
subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief m 
words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is 
as follows: — 

' Sacred to the Memory of 

Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children 

Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife, 

Their affectionate Mother, 

In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, 

Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary, 

In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance 

That " of such is the kingdom of God." ' 1 A. N."] 

Fair images of sleep, 

Hallowed, and soft, and deep. 
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies. 

Like moonlight on shut bells 

Of flowers in mossy dells. 
Filled Avith the hush cf night and summer 
skies ! 

How many hearts have felt 

Your silent beauty melt 
Their strength to gushi';.^ tendemera away ! 

How many sudde":! tears, 

From depths o^ buried jean 
All freshly burst Ipg, have cy.iffcssed you' away ! 

How many eyes wi'l shed 

Still, o'er your marble bed, 
Such drops from memory's ttO'iVied fountains 
wrung — 

While hope hath blights to bear, 

While love breathes mortal air, 
While roses perish ere to glory sprung ! 

Yet from a voiceless home, 
If some sad mother come 
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, 

1 From The Offering, an American annuaL 

71 



As o'er the cheek's warm glow, 
And the sweet breathings low, 
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast ; 

If then the dove-like tone 

Of those faint murmurs gone 
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return ; 

If for the soft bright hair, 

And brow and bosom fair, 
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ; 

O gentle forms, intwined 

Like tendrils, which the wind 
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink ! 

Send from your calm profound 

A still, small voice — a sound 
Of hojie. forbidding that lone heart to sink ! 

By all the pure, meek mind 

In your pale beauty shrined, 
Bj'^ childhood's love — too bright a bloom to die 

O'er her worn spirit shed, 

O fairest, holiest dead ! 
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality ! 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortalit}'. 
Away ! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's sprirg! 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twin* 

Into so proud a wreath. 
For that resplendent gift of thine 

Heroes have smiled in death • 
Give me from some kind hana a tiower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 

Can bid each life pulse beat, 
As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 

Calling the brave to meet : 
But mine, let mine — a woman's breast 
By words of home-born love be blessed. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye. 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 



662 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool, fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need . 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? — 
Not unto thee — O, not to thee ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 

Dreamer ! and wouldst thou know 
If love goes with us to the viewless bourn ? 
Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathomed source 
of woe 

In thy heart's lonely urn ? 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea. 

Finding no place of rest 5 

A precious odor cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music uttered to the blast, 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine, 
Wouldst thou be blessed ? Too sleepless, too 

profound, 
Are the soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 

Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail 
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's 

power ? 
As thine own cheek, before high thought grows 
pale 
In some o'erwhelming hour. 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot. 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a 
link. 

Where thy beloved are not r 

Is not thy very soiil 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 

Bows down thy weary head ? 

And wouldst thou bear all this — 
The burden and the shadow of thy life — 



To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 

With earthly feelings' strife ? 

Not thus, not thus — O, no ! 
Not veiled and mantled with dim clouds of care^ 
That spirit of my soul should with me go 

To breathe celestial air. 

But as the skylark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 
As to its place the flower seed findeth wings, 

So must love mount to heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulsf 
give. 

As light might wake a iyre. 

And O, its blessings there. 
Showered Uke rich balsana forth on some dctd 

head. 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 

A joy of sunlight shed. 

Let me, then — let me dream 
That love goes with us to the shore unknown ; 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 

" striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." 

Child£ Habold. 

Whence is the might of thy master spell ? 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and tell : 
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, 
Passionate visions of love and death ? 

How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh, 
Words and low tones from the daj's gone by — 
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell ? — 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and tell. 

What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring 
In sudden gushes the tears to bring ? 
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee 
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee ! 

Vain are those tears ! — vain and fruitless all — 
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, 
For a brighter home while the spirit y earns 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



561 



Something of mystery there surely dwells, 
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom cells ; 
Something that finds not its answer here — 
A chain to be clasped in another sphere. 

Therefore a current of sadness deep 

Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to 

sweep, 
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer 

sky — 
Like a name of the dead when the wind foams 

high! 

Vet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
A'^ith vain remembrance and troubled thought ; 
Speak ! for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth. 



THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 



" Harlc ! — they whisper I 
Sister spirit 1 come away." Pope. 

Come to the land of peace ! 
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway. 
The shadow passes from the soul away. 

The sounds of weeping cease. 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
Come to the mingling of repose and love. 
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air. 

Come to the bright, and blest, 
And crowned forever ! 'Midst that shining band. 
Gathered to Heaven's own wreath from every 
land. 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thou hast been long alone : 
Come to thy mother ! On the Sabbath shore, 
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once 
more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In sUence wert thou left : 
Come to thy sisters ! Joyously again 
All the home voices, blent in one sweet strain, 

Shall greet their long bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough : 
Come to thy father ! It is finished now ; 

Thy tears have all been shed. 



^ In thy divine abode 
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark tracer 
And O, bright victory — death by love no place 
Come, spirit ! to thy God. 



A FAREWELL TO WALES, 

FOR THE MELODY CALLED "THE ASH OROVE," ON LKATIKO 
THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. 

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — 

Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land ! 

On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun- 
tain air, 

On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's 
free hand. 

From the love of my soul with my tears it i? 
shed. 

As I leave thee, green land of my home and mj 
dead ! 

I bless thee ! — yet not for the beauty which 

dwells 
In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy 

shore ; 
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells. 
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore ; 
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled — 
Green land, poet land of my home and my dead I 

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat 
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies ; 
For thy cottage hearths burning the stranger to 

greet. 
For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 

kind eyes ! 
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be 

spread. 
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my 

dead! 



IMPROMPTU LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HE9 SOUI 
FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS. 

Ye teU me not of birds and bees, 

Not of the summer's murmuring trees. 

Not of the streams and woodland bowers 

A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers ! 

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring. 

Of one still bright, still flowing spring — 

A fount of kindness ever new, 

In a friend's heart, the good and true. 



164 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A PARTING SONG. 

O mes ainia I rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vera I mon ame 7 est 
empreinte." — Cokinne. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened with tender 
thought, 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich nudsummer time 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled. 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
tread — 
' Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 
So let it be ! 



WE RETURN NO MORE!' 

" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth, her worlc of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring." 
Childe Habold. 

•« We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
Bo comes the song to the mountain shore 

1 Ha til! — ha til! — ha til mi tulidle! — "we return! — 
ve return! — we return no more!" — the burden of the 
Highland song of emigration. 



From those that are leaving their Highland homt 

For a world far over the blue sea's foam : 

" We return no more ! " and through cave and 

deU 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er ; 
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, 
Where lovely things with their light depart : 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is forever gone. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er ? 
When the passionate soul of the night bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away ? 
When the glory from sunset's robe hath passed, 
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast ? 

No ! It is not the rose that returns no more ; 
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore ; 
And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours ; 
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues. 
Nor the frail flushed leaves which the wild wind 
strews. 

•' We return ! — we return ! — we return no 

more ! " 
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore ' 
Those wings that follow the southern breeze, 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas ? 
Yes ! from the lands of the vine and palm 
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow 

calm. 

" But we ! — we return ! — we return no more ! ' 
The heart's young dreams, when their spring bi 

o'er ; 
The love it hath poured so freely forth — 
The boundless trust in ideal worth ; 
The faith in affection — deep, fond, yet vain — 
These are the lost that return not again ! 



TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER 

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffered ! 

Unto feeling deep and strong. 
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string — 

I know it by thy song ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



561 



Thou hast loved — it may oe vainly — 

But well — O, but too well ! 
Thou hast suffered all that woman's Dreast 

May bear — but must not tell. 

rhou hast wept, and thou hast parted 

Thou hast been forsaken long, 
rhou hast watched for steps that came not 
back — 

I know it by thy song : 

tJy the low, clear silvery gusnmg 

Of its music from thy breast ; 
By the quivering of its nute-like swell — 

A sound of the heart's unrest ; 

By its fond and plaintive lingering 

On each word of grief so long, 
O, thou hast loved and suffered much — 

I know it by thy song ! 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light ; 

The darkest wave hath light foam ntar it ; 
And twinkles through the cloudiest night 

Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; 

The saddest heart is not all sadness , 
And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam of gladness. 

Despair is never quite despair ; 

Nor life nor death the future closes , 
And round the shadowy brow of Care 

Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses. 

[These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the 
" Forget-me-Not " for 1829, and are here for the first tirae 
admitted into the general collection of the author's works. 
In all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured 
forth when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.] 



THE PALMER. 

* The faded palm branch in his hand 
Showed pilgrim from tie Ualy Lan .'» ' BcoTT. 

Aier thou come from the far-off land at last } 

Thou that hast wandered long ! 
thou art come to a home whence the smile hath 
passed 

With the merry voice of song. 



For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 
Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 

They are parted, e'en as waters part, 
To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 
From thine eye the light of morn ; 

And the shades of thought o'eihang thy brow, 
And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say, what hast thou brought from the distant 
shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay .' 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more P 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way ? 

" I have brought but the palm branch in my hand, 
Yet I call not my bright yoiith lost ! 

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land 
Yet I count not too dear the cost ! 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee 

Are the memories they give me back ! 

" They speak of toil, and of high empriso 

As in words of solemn cheer ; 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

"They speak of scenes which have now b« 
come 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 

And the love of my heart can rest. 

" The colors pass not from these away, 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
O, beyond all treasures that know decay. 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

" A rich light thence o'er my life's decline^ 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy slirini\ 

I bewail not my bright days past ! " 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GIUEF. 

O. JALL my brother back to me ! 

I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with flower and beo— • 

Where is my brother gone ? 



" The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track ; 
[ care not now to chase its flight — 

O, call my brother back ! 

' The flowers run wild — the flowers we sowed 

Around our garden tree ; 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

O, call him back to me ! " 

• He would not hear thy voice, fair child i 

He may not come to thee ; 
The face that once like spring time smiled 

On earth no more thou'lt see. 

A rose's brief, bright life of joy, 
Such unto him was given : 
Go — thou must play alone, my boy ! 
Thy brother is in heaven." 

And has he left his birds and flowers ? 
And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours. 
Will he not come again ? 

•* And by the brook and in the glade 

Are all our wanderings o'er ? 
O, while my brother with me played, 

Would I had loved him more ! " 



TO THE NEW BORN.» 

A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many 

hopes and fears ! 
A rainbow welcome thine hath been, of mingled 

smiles and tears. 
Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and 

chastened heart. 
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all 

precious as thou art ! 

JL see thee not asleep, fair boy ! upon thy moth- 
er's breast, 

Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy 
rosy rest ; 

And how her soul with love, and prayer, and 
gladness will o'erflow, 

WTiile bending o'er thy soft-sealed eyes, thou 
dear one ! well I know. 

1 Addressed to the c\uld of her eldest brother. 



A blessing on thy gentle head ! and blessed thou 
art in truth. 

For a home where God is felt awaits thy child- 
hood and thy youth : 

Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell 
as light and air, 

And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germa 
now folded there. 

Smile on thy mother ! while she feels that unto 

her is given, 
In that young dayspring glance, the pledge of a 

soul to rear for Heaven ! 
Smile ! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy 

o'er thy wakening shed ! 
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy ! upon 

thy head ! 



THE DEATH SONG OF ALCESTIS. 

She came forth in her bridal robes arrayed. 
And 'midst the graceful statues, round the hali 
Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, 
Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they : 
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair. 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hou* 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness. 
Had burdened her full soul. But now, O, now 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure ail 
Came floating through that hall — the Grecian 

air. 
Laden with music — flute notes from the valet, 
Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds of life ! 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Streamed, as a roj^al mantle, round her foi-m — 
The glorified of love ! But she — she lo'^ked 
Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die, 
Deep — deepest, holiest joy ! Or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze. 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tidi 
Of her unswerving soul — 'twas but i thought 
That owned the summer loveliness of life 
For him a worthy off'ering ! So she stood, 
Rapt in bright silence, as entranced a while ; 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 567 


With the s-wift breeze of inspiration shook, 


" Take me to thy warm heart once luoie ! 


As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 


Night falls — my pulse beats low : 


Of inborn oracles ! Then flushed her cheek, 


Seek not to quicken, to restore — 


And all the triumph, all the agony. 


Joy is in every pang. I go, I go ! 


Borne on the battling waves of love and death. 




All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 


" I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 


Burst like a fount of fire. 


I meet thy fond look still ; 




Keen is the strife of love and death ; 


" I go, I go ! 


Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 


Thou sun ! thou golden sun ! I go 




Far from thy light to dwell : 


•' Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, 


Thou shalt not find my place below, 


Though mists o'ershade mine eye ! 


Dim is that world — bright sun of Greece, fare- 


— Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song ! 


well ! 


For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die ! " 


" The laurel and the glorious rose 




Thy glad beam yet may see ; 




But where no purple summer glows, 




O'er the dark wave I haste from them and thee. 






THE HOME OF LOVE. 


*• Yet doth my spirit faint to part ? 




— I mourn thee not, sun ! 


Thou mov'st in visions. Love ! Around thy way. 


Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart : 


E'en through this world's rough path and 


*liiig me triumphal songs ! — my crown is won ! 


changeful day. 




Forever floats a gleam — 


" Let not a voice of weeping rise — 


Not from the realms of moonlight or the mom. 


My heart is girt with power ! 


But thine own soul's illumined chambers born 


Let the green earth and festal skies 


The coloring of a dream ! 


Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 






Love ! shall I read thy dream ? 0, is it not 


" For thee, for thee my bosom's lord ! 


All of some sheltering wood-imbosomed spot — 


Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 


A bower for thee and thine ? 


Thine is the torch of life restored. 


Yes ! lone and lowly is that home ; yet there 


Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 


Something of heaven in the transparent air 




Makes every flower divine. 


" Now may the boundless love, that lay 




Unfathomed still before. 


Something that mellows and that glorifies 


In one consuming burst find way — 


Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 


In one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 


As o'er some blessed isle ; 




E'en like the soft and spiritual glow 


" Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is 


Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereai 


no70 ! 


bow 


Its glory and its might — 


Sleeps lovingly a while. 


Are they not written on my brow ? 




Ajid will that image ever quit thy sight ? 


The very whispers of the wind have there 




A flute like harmony, that seems to bear 


" No ! deathless in thy faithful breast. 


Greeting from some bright shore, 


There shall my memory keep 


Where none have said farewell! — where ni 


Its own bright altar-place of rest. 


decay 


Whila o'er my grave the cypress branches weep. 


Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 




Where the storm's might is o'er. 


" 0, the glad light ! — the light is fair, 




The soft breeze warm and free ; 


And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, 


And rich notes fill the scented air, 


In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 


Kni. all are gifts — my love's last gifts to thee ! 


Hidden from earthly ill : 



668 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



There -"rouldst thou watch the homeward step, 

whose sound, 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round. 
Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious 

page. 
From mind to mind the immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word, 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air, 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath. 
Of spirits, not to be disjoined by death, 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should 

come 
To mar the stUlness of that angel home ; 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weighed down with honey dew, serenely blessed, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 

Love ! Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below — 

Here, where bright things must die ? 
O thou ! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine tree, or thy gracious rose. 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no re- 
pose. 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

And as a flower, with some fine sense im- 
bued. 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude. 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyxestrings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming Ul : 

O, canst thou dream of rest ? 

Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou 

weak ! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break — 
As a flame, tempest-swayed ! 



He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its trouble 
course. 
He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity ? — He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ? — 

O, pray to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess. 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness. 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 

" La vue d'une fleur caresse mon imaginatton, et flatte mes sent 
a uu point inexprimable. Sous le tranquille abri du toil paternel 
j*etais nourrie des reniance avec des fleurs et des livres; danf 
Tetroite enceinte d'une prison, au milieu des fers imposies par la 
tyrannie, j'oublie I'injustice des hommes, leurs soltisea et raee 
maux, avec des livres et des fleurs." 

Come ! let me make a sunny realm around thee 

Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 

flowers, 

With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound 

thee — 

The ravelled coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages, 
Even as the odor in the flower enshrined ; 

Here the crowned spirits of departed ages 
Have left the silent melodies of mind. 

Tlieir thoughts, that strove with time, and 
change, and anguish, 
For some high place where faith her wing 
might rest, 
Are burning here — a flame that may not lan- 
guish — 
Still pointing upward to that bright hill's 
crest ! 

Their grief, the veiled infinity exploring 

For treasures lost, is here ; — their boundlesi 
love, 

Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things round, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their own hearts' crea- 
tions, 
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing 
still ; 
Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 

Are here, and victories of prevaUing will ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



569 



lasten ! O, listen ! let their high words cheer 
thee! 
TheLr swan-like music ringing through all 
woes ; 
tiCt my voice bring their holy influence near 
thee — 
The Elysian air of their divine repose ! 

Or wouldst thou turn to earth ? Not earth all 
furrowed 
By the old traces of man's toil and care, 
But the green peaceful world that never sor- 
rowed, 
The world of leaves, and dews, and summer 
air! 

Look on these flowers ! as o'er an altar shed- 
ding, 
O'er Milton's page, soft light from colored 
urns ! 
They are the links, man's heart to nature wed- 
ding, 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles. 
Fresh banks of many a low-voiced, hidden 
stream, 
Where the sweet star of eve looks down and 
mingles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in 

gladness, 
Covering the turf with flowery blossom 

showers ; 
Too richly dowered, O friend! are we for 

sadness — 
Look on an empire — mind and nature — ours ! 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST. CECILIA 
ATTENDED BY ANGELS. 

" How rich that forehead's calm expanse I 
How bright that heaven-directed glance 
— Waft her to glory, winged powers 1 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 
And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood I " Wokdswoeth. 

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming. 

Wear yet so deep a calm ? child of song ! 
lt> not the music land a world of dreaming. 
Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty 
throng ? 

T2 



Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 
Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear J 
Low haunting whispers, which the weary 
hearted. 
Stealing 'midst crowds away, have wept t# 
hear ? 

No, not to thee ! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, 
On its own starry height, beyond all this, 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, 

Breathes no faint undertone through songs of 
bliss. 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ethei 
swelling, 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from 
the skies ; 
Bright guests ! even such as left of yore theu 
dwelling 
For the deep cedar shades of paradise ! 

What strain ? O, not the nightingale's, when 
showering 
Her own heart's lifedrops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flow- 
ering, 
And pours her strength, but not her grief 
away ; 

And not the exile's — when, 'midst lonely bil- 
lows. 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung. 
Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is 
hung ; 

And not the pilgrim's — though his thoughts be 
holy, 
And sweet his ave song when day grows 
dim; 
Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, 
Something of sadness floats through that layr 
hymn. 

But thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hushed air and reverential sky — 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rap- 
ture thrilling — 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gtish 
free; 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music land for thee. 



IHE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE. 

BUOOE8TED BY A PICTUEE OF EASTLAKE'S. 

Dabk chieftain of the heath and height ! 
Wild feaster on the hills by night ! 
Seest thou the stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below ? 
Now for one strife of stern despair ! 
The foe hath tracked thee to thy lair. 

Thou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
And in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor the tree ; 
Haply thine own last hour is nigh, — 
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. 

There's one that pale beside thee stands, 
More true than all thy mountain bands ! 
She wUl not shrink in doubt and dread 
When the balls whistle round thy head : 
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye 
No longer may to hers reply. 

O, many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And many a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek, religious breast. 
Hath perished in her wanderings wide, 
Through the deep forests by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall — 

A friendless thing, whose lot is cast 

Of lovely ones to be the last — 

Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 

And O, not whoUy lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, though far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong ; 
Yet may its depths by Heaven be stirred. 
Its prayer for thee be poured and heard ! 



THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE 
WOODLANDS. 

■VOaXBTID BT A PICTCBE OF SIB THOMAS LAWBENCE'S. 

"All good and gniltleas as thou art, 
Borne transient griefs will touch thy heart — 
Griefs that along thy altered face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy." WiLSOir. 



Hast thou been in the woods with the hone]f 

bee ? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the nasturet 

free ? 
With the hare through the copses and dingles 

wild ? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? 
Yes ! the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest deUs, 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique 

song 
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng : 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, 
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grov6 
A dreaming haunt for romance and love — 
Each sunny bank, where faint odors lie, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy 

lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o er : 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep 
Like hidden gems in the flower urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell* 
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriera 

shed, 
And the beauty that bows the wood hyacintb'i 

head. 

O happy child ! in thy fawn-like glee. 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, 
O'er thy green pathway their colors fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath mines of such wealth — and thou 
Never will prize its delights as now ! 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one ! 

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, 

Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 

Into the stiUness of autumn skies ; 

And to teach thee that grief hath her needfii 

part 
'Midst the hidden things of each human hevt 

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child ! for this i 
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



671 



Such be thy portion ! — the bliss to look, 

With a reverent spirit, through nature's book ; 

By fount, by forest, by river's line. 

To track the paths of a love divine ; 

To read its deep meanings — to see and hear 

rJod in earth's garden — and not to fear ! 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 

Tkott hast watched beside the bed of death, 

O fearless human Love ! 
Thy lip received the last, faint breath, 

Ere the spirit fled above. 

Thy prayer -was heard by the parting bier, 

In a low and farewell tone ; 
Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear - 

— Love ! thy task is done. 

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 

Where thou wert wont to rove ; 
ror there the friend of thy soul is not. 

Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love ! 

Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there ; 

Her dreams in the groves she weaves. 
With echoes filling the summer air. 

With sighs the trembling leaves. 

Then turn thee to the world again. 
From those dim, haunted bowers, 

And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain 
That tells of vanished hours. 

And wear not on thine aching heart 

The image of the dead ; 
For the tie is rent that gave thee part 

In the gladness its beauty shed. 

And gaze on the pictured smile no more 

That thus can life outlast : 
All between parted souls is o'er. — 

Love ! Love ! forget the past ! 

" Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 

Strive not against the faith 
That yet my bosom with light can fill, 

Unquenched, and undimmed by death. 

"♦ From the pictured smile I will not turn, 

Though sadly now it shine ; 
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn 

For the step once linked with mine ; 



" Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, 
Though its notes the pang renew. 

— Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 
To keep it pure and true. 

" By the holy instinct of my heart, 
By the hope that bears me on, 

I have still my own undying part 
In the deep affection gone. 

" By the presence that about me seems 
Through night and day to dwell. 

Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 
— I have breathed no last farewell ! " 



THE SISTER'S DREAM. 

[Suggested by a picture in wliicli a young girl is repr6< 
sented as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by thf 
spirits of her departed sisters.] 

She •sleeps ! — but not the free and sunny sleep 

That lightly on the brow of childhood lies : 
Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep. 

Yet, ere it sank upon her shadowed eyes, 
Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'er- 

swept 
Her soul's meek stillness — she had prayed and 
wept. 

And now in visions to her couch they come. 
The early lost — the beautiful — the dead ! 

That unto her bequeathed a mournful home, 
Whence with their voices all sweet laugh tei 
fled; 

They rise — the sisters of her youth arise. 

As from the world where no frail blossom dies. 

And well the sleeper knows thera not of earth — 
Not as they were when binding up the flowers, 

Telling wild legends round the winter hearth, 
Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours : 

These things are past — a spiritual gleam, 

A solemn glory, robes tliem in that dream. 

Yet, if the glee of life's fresh buddirig years 
In those pure aspects maj' no more be read, 

Thence, too, hath sorrow melted — and the tears 
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, 

Are all effaced. There earth hath left no sign 

Save its deep love, still touching every line. 

But O, more soft, more tender — breat?iing mori 
A thought of pity than in vanished iaya I 



«72 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



While, hovering silently and brightly o'er 
The lone one's head, they meet l.er spirit's 
gaze 
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 
" Yet, sister ! yet we love thee — come away ! " 

Twill fade, the radiant dream ! And will she 
not 
Wake witn more painful yearning at her 
heart ? 
Will not her hoir.ij seem yet a lonelier spot. 
Her task more sad, when those bright shadows 
part ? 
And the green summer after them look dim. 
And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn ? 

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still ; 

Be their names uttered, be their rtiemory spread 
Yet round the place they nevermore may fill ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie — 

Where, where should sisters love, if not on 
high ? 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 

[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate 
of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then appar- 
ently in the vigor of an existence whose energies promised 
long continuance ; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, 
and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle 
the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all 
V/bo had the happiness of approaching him.] 

Home of the gifted ! fare thee well, 

And a blessing on thee rest ! 
While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain crest ; 
While stream to stream around thee calls, 

And braes with broom are dressed. 
Glad be the harping in thy halls — 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth 

Bids rock and cairn reply, 
vVakening the spirits of the North 

Like a chieftain's gathering cry ; 
While its deep master tones hold sway 

As a king's o'er every breast. 
Home of the legend and the lay ! 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

Joy to the hearth, and board, and bower ! 

Long honors to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power, 

And bright names worthy thine ! 



By the merry step of childhood, still 
May thy free sward be pressed ! 

While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, 
A blessing on thee rest ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

[This piece was suggested by a picture in the possessiol 
of Mrs. Lawrence, of Wavertree Hall. It represents th« 
" Hero's Child " of Campbell's poem seated beside a soli- 
tary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and des- 
ert place. A tempest seems gathering in the angry skiei 
above her, but the attitude of the drooping figure expresses 
the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenanca 
speaks of entire abstraction from all external objects. A 
bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the weeds and wild 
flowers of the desert] 

"1 fled the home of grief 

At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall ; 
I found the helmet of my chief, 

Hia bow still hanging on our wall. 
And took it down, and vowed to rove 

This desert place a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 

For any heart of living mould." CampbblI/. 

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud : 

Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, 

And gird the form whose beauty grief hath 
bowed. 

And leave the tomb, as tombs are left — alone, 

To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan. 

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, 

Where gems are ghttering, and bright wine is 
poured ; 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, 
And soul seems gashing from the harp's fixU 
chord ; 
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave 
Than the sad Love-lies-bleeding of the grave. 

O, little know'st thou of th' o'ermastering spell 
Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong ir 
pain, 
To the spot hallowed by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, — intense, yet vain, 
A look — and darkness when its ' gleam hath 

flown, 
A voice — and silence when its words are gone ' 

She hears thee not : her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes ; and they are bound 

Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart. 
Where faithful blood hath sanctified the 
ground ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



m 



And love witli death stiiven long by tear and 

prayer, 
And anguish frozen into stiU despair. 

Yet on her spirit hath arii5en at last 

A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born ; 
Around her path a vision's glow is east. 
Back, back her lost one comes in hues of 
morn ! ' 
Per her the gulf is filled — the dark night 

fled. 
Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

And she can pour forth in such converse high 
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong. 

O, lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny, 
And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay 
throng, 

Than hers — the qneen of that majestic gloom, 

The tempest, and the deseri, and the tomb I 



THE PRAYER FOR LIFE. 

O SUNSHINE and fair oarth ! 

Sweet is your kindly mirth ; 
Angel of death ! yet a while delay ! 

Too sad it is to part. 

Thus in my spring of heart, 
With all the light and laughter of the day. 

For me the falling leaf 

Touches no chord of grief. 
So dark void in the rose's bosom lies : 

Not one triumphal tone, 

One hue of hope, is gone 
From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. 

Dealt'/, Death ! ere yet decay, 

Call me not hence away ! 
Over the golden hours no shade is thrown : 

The poesy that dwells 

Deep in green woods and dells 
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 

Yet not for this, O Death ! 

Not for the vernal breath 
Of winds that shake forth miisic from the trees : 

Not for the splendor given 

To night's dark, regal heaven, 
Spoiler ! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 

^' A son of light, a Imely form, 
He comes, and makes her glad." — Campbell. 



But for the happy love 

Whose light, where'er I rove, 
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 

Shedding on branch and flower 

A rainbow-tinted shower 
Of richer life — spare, spare me yet a while. 

Too soon, too fast thou'rt come ! 

Too beautiful is home — 
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes ! 

And I the loved of all, 

On whom fond blessings fall 
From every lip. 0, wilt thou rend such ties ? 

Sweet sisters ! weave a chain 

My spirit to detain ; 
Hold me to earth with strong afiection back ; 

Bind me with mighty love 

Unto the stream, the grove. 
Our daily paths — our life's familiar track. 

Stay with me ! gird me round ! 

Your voices bear a sound 
Of hope — a light comes with you and departs j 

Hush my soul's boding swell, 

That murmurs of farewell. 
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts ? 

Death ! Grave ! — and are there those 

That woo your dark repose 
'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth ? 

Surely about them lies 

No world of loving eyes. 
Leave me, 0, leave me unto home and hearth ' 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice ! 

My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shoH 

To wanderer on the sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling woods- 

In the sighing vernal airs ; 
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth 

With a deeper tone than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! Since kindred steps 

From its green paths are fled, 
A dimness and a hush have lain 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
The silence of th' unanswering soul 

Is on me and around : 



674 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


My heart liath echoes but for thee. 


No ! Thou art the victor. Death ! 


Thou still, smali, warning sound ! 


Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 




From the depths of the eye, when the spiril 


Voice after voif'C- nath died away, 


woke? 


Once in my dwelling heard ; 


— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 


Sweet household name by name hath changed 




To grief's forbidden word ! 


Thou comest — and what is left 


From dreams of night on each I call. 


Of all that loved us, to say if aught 


Each of the far removed ; 


Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 


4.nd waken to my own wild cry — 


Of the spirit lone and reft ? 


" Where are ye, my beloved ? " 






Silence is where thou art ! 


Ye left me ! and earth's flowers were dim 


Silently there must kindred meet. 


With records of the past ; 


No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 


And stars poured down another light 


No bounding of heart to heart ! 


Than o'er my youth they cast. 




Birds Avill not sing as once they sung 


Boast not thy victory. Death ! 


When ye were at my side. 


It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam'i 


And mournful tones are in the wind 


power. 


Which I heard not till ye died ! 


It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and fio-wer, 




That slumber the snow beneath. 


Thou art welcome, thou summoner ! 




Why should the last remain I 


It is but as a tyrant's reign 


What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 


O'er the voice and the lip which he bids b« 


Bearing in light again ? 


still ; 


E'en could this be, too much of fear 


But the fiery thought and the lofty will 


U'er love would now be thrown. — 


Are not for him to chain ! 


Away ! away ! from time, from change, 




Once more to meet my own ! 


They shall soar his might above : 




And thus with the root whence affection springs, 




Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 




Thou art the victor, Love ! 


THE VICTOR. 




•• De tout ce qui t'aimoit n'est-il plus rien qui t'^me 7 " 




IiAUABTINE. 


LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM 


Mighty ones, Love and Death ! 


AT R0SANNA.1 


Ye are the strong in this world of ours ; 

Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell 'midst the 


0, LIGHTLY tread through these deep chestnut 
bowers. 


flowers, 
— Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 


Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved! 
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and 


Thou art the victor, Love ! 
Thou ai t the fearless, the croAvned, the free ; 


flowers — 
Fair things, which weU a gentle heart hath 
loved ! 


The strength of the battle is given to thee — 


A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode. 


The spirit from aboA^e ! 


Whence the bright stream of song in teardrops 


Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled ! 


flowed. 


rhou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile 

form 
rhrough the waves of the fight, through the 


And bid its memory sanctify the scene ! 


And let th' ideal presence of the dead 


rush of the storm. 
On field, and flood, caid wild ! 


1 A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, formerly 
the abode of the authoresa of" Psych's." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



571 



Float round, and touch the woods with softer 

green, 
And o'er the streams a chai-m, like moonlight, 

shed, 
riirough the soul's depths in holy silence felt — 
A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt ! 



THE YOICE OF THE WAVES. 

WBITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OE A RECENT SHIPWRECK 

" How perfect was the calm I It seemed no sleep, 
No mood which season takes away or brings; 
I could liave fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 



But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to bo borne." 

Wordsworth. 

\jiswER, ye chiming waves 

That now in sunshine sweep ! 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves. 

Voice of the solemn deep ! 

Hath man's lone spirit here 

With storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear, 

Hath anguish cried to Heaven ? 

— Then the sea's voice arose 

Like an earthquake's undertone : 
" Mortal ! the strife of human woes 
Where hath ttot nature known ? 

" Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung ; 
The shriek upon the wind hath passed, 

The midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave. 
With their beauty and renown, 

To the hollow chambers of the wave 
In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanished from their place — 
Let their homes and hearths make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies — I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass — 
High hope, and thought, and mind — 



E'en as the breath stain from the glass, 
Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw' St thou nought else, thou main? 

Thou and the midnight sky ? 
Nought save the struggle, brief and vain, 

The parting agony ! 

— And the sea's voice replied : 
" Here nobler things have been ! 

Power, with the valiant when they died, 
To sanctify the scene ; 

" Courage, in fragile form ; 

Faith, trusting to the last j 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards through tha 
storm ; 

But all alike have passed." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not passed in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs fre» 

On victor wings again. 

Thou, from thine empire driven, 

Mayst vanish with thy powers ; 
But, by the hearts that here have strivor 

A loftier boon is ours ! 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE, 

" I seem like one who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead. 
And all but me departed." MooBl. 

Seest thou yon gray, gleaming hall. 
Where the deep elm shadows fall ? 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago 
Still are murmuring round its hearth 

Soft and low ; 
Ever there ; — yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 
Guests come thither, and depart. 
Free of step, and hght of heart ; 
Children, with sweet A-isions blessed, 
In the haunted chambers rest ; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath sealed all eyes, 
One quick heart and watchful ear. 
Listening for those whispers clear. 

Seest thou where the woodbine flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers i 



976 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Startling faces ot the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet. 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young, smooth foreheads fair, 
Paintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some with reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago ! 
All, from under deep sea waves, 
Or the flowers of foreign graves, 
Or the old and bannered aisle. 
Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 
Rising, wandering, floating by, 
Suddenly and silently. 
Through their earthly home and place. 
But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone. 

Are those sounds and visions known ? 

Wherefore hath that speU of power 

Dark and dread, 
On her soul, a baleful dower. 

Thus been shed ? 
O, in those deep-seeing eyes 
No strange gift of mystery lies ! 
She is lone where once she moved 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 
Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. 
Now those, silver chords are broken. 
Those bright looks have left no token — 
Not one trace on all the earth, 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now ; 
Dreams have gathered o'er her brow ; 
'Midst gay songs and children's play 
She is dwelling far away. 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



niE SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS. 

" God gave him reverence of lavrs, 
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause — 
A spirit to his rocks akin, 
The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein I " Colekidoe. 

Singing of the free blue sky. 
And the wild-flower glens that lie 
Far amidst the ancient hills, 
.Which the fountain music fills ; 
Singing of the snow peaks bright. 
And the royal eagle's flight. 
And the courage and the grace 
Fostered by the chamois chase ; 



In his fetters, day by day, 

So the shepherd poet lay. 

Wherefore from a dungeon cell 

Did those notes of freedom swell, 

Breathing sadness not their own 

Forth with every Alpine tone ? 

Wherefore ! — can a tyrant's ear 

Brook the mountain winds to hear, 

When each blast goes pealing by 

With a song of liberty ? 

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand 

O'er the shepherd poet's land ; 

Sounding there the waters gushed. 

While the lip of man was hushed ; 

There the falcon pierced the cloud, 

While the fiery heart was bowed. 

But this might not long endure 

Where the mountain homes were pure ; 

And a valiant voice arose, 

Thrilling all the silent snows ; 

His — now singing far and lone. 

Where the young breeze ne'er was known 

Singing of the glad blue sky. 

Wildly — and how mournfully ! 

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyej 
To be free where the hiUs unto heaven as- 
pire? 
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, 
Now that their poet is chained at last? — 
Think of the mountains, and deem not so ! 
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow ! 
Yes ! though forbidden be every word 
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirred, 
Yet even as a buried stream through earth 
Rolls on to another and brighter birth, 
So shall the voice that hath seemed to die 
Burst forth with the anthem of liberty ! 

And another power is moving 
In a bosom fondly loving : 
O, a sister's heart is deep. 
And her spirit strong to keep 
Each light link of early hours. 
All sweet scents of childhood's flowen t 
Thus each lay by Emi sung 
Rocks and crystal caves among. 
Or beneath the linden leaves, 
Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves. 
Rapid though as bird notes gushing, 
Transient as a wan cheek's flusliing, 
Each in young Teresa's breast 
Left its fiery words impressed ; 
Treasured there lay every line, 
i As a rich book on a hidden shrine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



677 



Fair was that lone girl, and meek, 

With a pale, transparent cheek, 

And a deep -fringed violet eye 

Seeking in sweet shade to lie, 

Or, if raised to glance above. 

Dim with its own dews of love ; 

And a pure Madonna brow. 

And a silvery voice and low, 

Like the echo of a flute, 

Kven the last, ere all be mute. 

jSut a loftier soul was seen 

111 the orpljan sister's mien. 

From ihat hour when chains defiled 

Hj.ni, the high Alps' noble child. 

Toue3 in h<3i quivering voice awoke. 

As if a harp of vjattle spoke ; 

Light, that SvitTi.ed born of an eagle's nest, 

Flashed from hsx weft eyes un repressed ; 

And her form, like a spreading water flower. 

When its frail cup .iwells with a sudden 

shower, 
Seemed all dilated -with love and pride. 
And grief for that oro^-hsr, her young heart's 

guide. 
Well might they love ! — *hose two had grown 
Orphans together and aion-e : 
The silence of the Alpine Swty 
Had hushed their hearts to pitty ; 
The turf, o'er their dead mother laid. 
Had been their altar when they ^>rayed ; 
There, more in tenderness than woe, 
The stars had seen their young teau flow ; 
The clouds, in spirit-like descent, 
Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, 
And the wild storms linked them to each other; 
How dear can peril make a brother ! 

Now is their hearth a forsaken spot, 
The vine waves unprunedo'er their mounimin rsot: 
Away, in that holy affection's might. 
The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. 
She is gone forth alone, but ^er lighted face, 
Filling with soul every secret place. 
Hath a dower from Heaven, and a gift of sway, 
To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, 
Like the sudden flinging forth on high 
Of a banner that startleth silently ! 
She ha*h wandered through many a hamlet vale. 
Telling its children her brother's tale ; 
And the strains by his spirit poured away 
Freely as fountains might shower their spray. 
From her fervent lip a new life have caught. 
And a power to kindle j'et bolder thought ; 
While sometimes a melody, all her own. 
Like a gush of tears in its plantive tone, 
73 



May be heard 'midst the rocks to flow, 

Clear through the water chimes — clear, yet low. 

" Thou'rt not where wild flowers wave 
O'er crag and sparry cave ; 
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding, 
Or joyous torrents bounding — 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou'rt not where green, on high, 
The brighter pastures lie ; 
Even those, thine own wild places, 
Bear of our chain dark traces : 

Alas, my brother ! 

" Far hath the sunbeam spread, 
Nor found thy lonely bed ; 
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, 
Nor one sweet whisper brought thee - 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Thou, that for joy wert born. 
Free as the wings of morn ! 
Will aught thy young life cherish. 
Where the Alpine rose would perish ! — 
Alas, my brother ! 

" Canst thou be singing still, 

As once, on every hill ? 

Is not thy soul forsaken. 

And the bright gift from thee taken ? — 

Alas, alas, my brother ! " 

And was the bright gift from the captive fled ? 
Like the fire on his heaftrth, was his spirit dead f 
Not so ! — but as rooted in stillness deep 
The pure stream lily its place will keep 
Though its tearful urns to the blast may qu; ver. 
While the red waves rush down the foaning 

river ; 
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay. 
Trembling, yet not to be borne away ! 
He thovvht of the Alps and the breezy air, 
And felt that his country no chains might bear , 
He thought of the hunter's haughty life. 
And knew there must yet be noble strife. 
But O, when he thought of that orphan maid. 
His high heart melted — he wept and prayed ! 
For he saw her not as she moved e'en then, 
A wakener of heroes in every glen. 
With a glance inspi'^^ed wmcn no grief could 

tame, 
Bearing on hope hke a torch's flame ; 
While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs 
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs. 



S78 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But his dreams were filled by a haunting tone, 
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan ; 
And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, 
Which looked on it— 0, how beseechingly ! 
And there floated past him a fragile form. 
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm ; 
Tm wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove 
In vain with its burden of helpless love ! 
Thus woke the dreamer one weary night — 
There flashed through his dungeon a swift strong 

light ; 
He sprang up — he climbed to the grating bars. 

— It was not the rising of moon or stars, 
But a signal flame from a peak of snow, 
Rocked through the dark skies to and fro ! 
There shot forth another — another stUl — 
A hundred answers of hill to hill ! 
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, 
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, 
And each is hailed with a pealing shout, 
For the high Alps waving their banners out ! 
Erni ! young Erni ! the land hath risen ! — 
Alas ! to be lone in thy narrow prison ! 
Those free streamers glancing, and thou not 

there ! 

— Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair ? 

— Hark ! there's a tumult that shakes his 

cell. 
At the gates of the mountain citadel ! 
Hark ! a clear voice through the rude sounds 

ringing ! 
Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet 

singing ? 

" There may not long be fetters. 
Where the cloud is earth's array. 

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, 
Like a hunter on the prey ! 

" There may not long be fetters. 

Where the white Alps have their towers ; 

Unto eagle homes, if the arrow comes, 
The chain is not for ours ! " 

l\ is she ! She is come like a dayspring 

beam, 
Bhe that so mournfully shadowed his dream ! 
With her shining eyes and her buoyant 

form, 
Bhe is come ! her tears on his cheek are warm ; 
And O, the thrill in that weeping voice ! 
'« My brother ! my brother ! come forth, rejoice ! " 

Poet ! the land of thy love is free — 
Sister ! thy brother is won by thee ! 



TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS. 

" How divine 

The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens, 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps — regions consecrate 
To oldest time 1 And reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest. 
Be as a presence or a motion — one 
Among the many there." Wokdswokth. 

Mountain winds ! O, whither do ye call me ? 

Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue ! 
Chains of care to lower earth inthrall me, 

Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo ? 

0, the strife of this divided being ! 

Is there peace where ye are born on high > 
Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, 

In our hearts would haunting memories dii ? 

Those wild places are not as a dwelling 

Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone I 

Never from those rocky halls came swelling 
Voice of kindness in familiar tone ! 

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth 

In the pathway of your wanderings free 

And the torrent, vidldly as it leapeth. 
Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. 

There the rushing of the falcon's pinion 
Is not from some hidden pang to fly ; 

All things breathe of power and stern dominion—" 
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. 

Mountain winds ! O, is it, is it only 

Where man's trace hath been that so we pine ? 

Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, 
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine ' 

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers ! 

At whose tone my heart within me burns ; 
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers. 

Where the waters have their secret urns ! 

There to commune with a loftier spirit 
Than the troubling shadows of regret ; 

There the wings of freedom to inherit. 

Where the enduring and the winged are met 

Hush, proud voices ! gentle be your falling ! 

Woman's lot thus chainless may not be ; 
Hush ! the heart your trumpet sounds are 
calling 

Darkly still may grow — but never free J 



THE PROCESSION. 

The peace which passeth all understanding ' disclosed itself 
a her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a 
teady, uusbadowed moonlighL" — Coleridge. 

There were trampling sounds of many feet, 
And music rushed through the crowded street — 
Proud music, such as tells the sky 
Of a chief returned from victory. 

There were banners to the winds unrolled, 
With haughty words on each blazoned fold ; 
High battle names, which had rung of yore 
When lances clashed on the Syrian shore. 

Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, 
There were flowers of the woods on the path- 
way strewn ; 
And wheels that crushed as they swept along ; 
O, what doth the violet amidst the throng ? 

I saw where a bright procession passed 
The gates of a minster old and vast ; 
And a king to his crowning place was led, 
Through a sculptured line of the warrior dead. 

I saw, far gleaming, the long array 
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay. 
And the colored light, that wrapped them all, 
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. 

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye 
Away from th' ancestral pageantry — 
A grave by the lordly minster's gate, 
Unhonored, and yet not desolate. 

It was a dewy greensward bed, 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head ; 
But Love — 0, lovelier than all beside ! — 
That lone place guarded and glorified. 

For a gentle form stood watching there, 
Young — but how sorrowfully fair ! 
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot. 
That reckless feet might profane them not. 

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek. 
And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek ; 
And I deemed, by its lifted gaze of love. 
That her sad heart's treasure was all above. 

For alone she seemed 'midst the throng to be, 
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea ; 
Alone, in a mourner's vest arrayed, 
And with folded hands, e'on as if she prayed. 



It faded before me, that mask of pride ; 
The haughty swell of the music died ; 
Banner, and armor, and tossing plume 
All melted away in the twilight's gloom. 

But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, 
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face^ 
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night houl 

glide — 
— O, Love is lovelier than all beside ! 



THE BROKEN LUTE. 

" When the lamp is shattered, 

The light in the dust lies dead ; 
When the cloud is scattered, 

The rainbow's glory is shed; 
When the lute is broken, . 

Sweet sounds are remembered not; 
When the words are spoken, 

Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendor 

Survive not the lamp and lute, 
The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute." Shellkt. 

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 

'Midst forms that breathed from the picttire*' 

walls ; 
But a glow of beauty like her own, 
There had no dream of the painter thrown. 
Lit from within was her noble brow, 
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow ; 
Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue. 
As if ye might see how the soul wrought througli, 
And every flash of her fervent eye 
Seemed the bright wakening of poesy. 

Even thus it was ! From her childhood's yean 
A being of sudden smiles and tears — 
Passionate visions, quick light and shade - 
Such was that high-born Italian maid ! 
And the spirit of song in her bosom cell 
Dwelt, as the odors in violets dwell, 
Or as the sounds in ^olian strings, 
Or in aspen leaves the quiverings ; 
There, ever there, with the life enshrined, 
Waiting the call of the faintest wind. 

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, 
In the city's hour of moonlight glee - 
Oft would that gift of the southern sky 
O'erflow from her lips in melody; 
Oft amid festal halls it came. 
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame — 
Till the dance was hushed, and the silvery ton* 
Of her inspiration was heard alone. 



s&c 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And fame went with her, the bright, the crowned, 
And music floated her steps around ; 
And every lay of her soul was borne 
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. 

And was the daughter of Venice blest. 
With ». power so deep in her youthful breast ? 
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 
So many changes and dreams went by, 
A ad in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought 
As if but born from the rush of thought ? 
Yes ! in the brightness of joy a while 
She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile ; 
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 
All, all on a happy love was poured ! 
How loves a heart whence the stream of song 
Flows, like the lifeblood, quick, bright, and 

strong ? 
How loves a heart, which hath never proved 
One breath of the world ? Even so she loved ; 
Blessed, though the lord of her soul, afar. 
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, 
Bearing the flag of St. Mark's on high. 
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. 
Proud music breathed in her song, when fame 
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name ; 
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith — 
Perfect, and fearing no change but death. 

But the fields are won from the Othman 
host. 
In the land that quelled the Persian's boast, 
And a thousand hearts in Venice bum 
For the day of triumph and return ! 
The day is come ! the flashing deep 
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
And the sceptred city of the wave 
With her festal splendor greets the brave ; 
Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, 
Make the air one stream of exulting sound ; 
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, 
Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 

But happiest and brightest that day of all. 
Robed for her warrior's festival. 
Moving a queen 'midst the radiant throng, 
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song ! 
The lute he loved on her arm she bore, 
As she rushed in her joy to the crowded shore ; 
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow 
By the sunset given unto mountain snow, 
And her eye all filled with the spirit's play. 
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, 
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 
Bo came that being of hope and light ! 



One moment, Erminia ! one moment more, 

And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 

The bark of her lover hath touched the strand — 

Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand ? 

— A young fair form, whose nymph-liko grace 

Accorded well with the Grecian face. 

And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, 

And the lashes that drooped o'er a pale ros« 

cheek ; 
And he looked on that beauty with tendex 

pride — 
The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride ! 

But how stood she, the forsaken, there. 

Struck by the lightning of swift despair ? 

Still, as amazed with grief, she stood. 

And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood , 

And there came from her quivering lip no word, 

Only the fall of her lute was heard. 

As it dropped from her hand at her rival's feet, 

Lito fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet ! 

What more remaineth? Her day was done ; 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
Passed from her soul in that mortal hour, 
Like the rich sound from the shattered string 
Whence the gush of sweetness no more mighl 

spring ! 
As an eagle struck in his upward flight, 
So was her hope from its radiant height ; 
And her song went with it forevermore, 
A gladness taken from sea and shore ! ' 

She had moved to the echoing sound of fame- 
Silently, silently, died her name ! 
Silently melted her life away. 
As ye have seen a yoiing flower decay, 
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burned expire, 
Or a bright stream shrink from <-he summer's fir? 
Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute ! 



THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. 

" How weeps yon gallant band 
O'er him their valor could not save I 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave, 

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand." WzLlOff. 

In the shadow of the pyramid 
Our brother's grave we made, 

When the battle day was done, 

And the desert's parting sun 
A field of death surveyed. 



_J 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 68- 


The blood- red sky above us 


To thee a southern heart hath given 


Was darkening into night, 


That glow of love, that calm of heaven, 


And the Arab watching silently 


And round thee cast th' ideal gleam, 


Our sad and hurried rite ; 


The light that is but of a dream. 


The voice of Egypt's river 


Far hence, where wandering music fills 


Came hollow and profound ; 


The haunted air of Roman hills. 


And one lone palm tree, where we stood. 


Or where Venetian waves of yore 


Rocked with a shivery sound ; . 


Heard melodies they hear no more, 




Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle 


While the shadow of the pyramid 


Hath known the SA*eetness of thy simle. 


Hung o'er the grave we made, 




When the battle day was done, 


Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine, 


And the desert's parting sun 


'Mid forests of the Apennine, 


A field of death surveyed. 


Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell 




Pass like a floating anthem swell. 


The fathers of our brother 


Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way 


Were borne to knightly tombs, 


Shed blessings with their gentle ray. 


With torchlight and with anthem note. 




And many waving plumes ; 


Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, 




Perchance thine island chapel stood, 


But he, the last and noblest 


Where from the blue Sicilian sea 


Of that high Norman race. 


The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee, 


With a few brief words of soldier love 


And blessed thy power to guide, to 


Was gathered to his place ; 


save. 




Madonna ! watcher of the wave ! 


In the shadow of the pyramid, 




Where his youthful form we laid, 


0, might a voice, a whisper low. 


When the battle day was done. 


Forth from those lips of beauty flow ! 


And the desert's parting sun 


Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, 


A field of death surveyed. 


The conflicts, and the pangs of years, 




Which, at thy secret shrine revealed. 


But let him, let him slumber 


Have gushed from human hearts unsealed.. 


By the old Egyptian wave ! 




It is well with those who bear their fame 


Surely to thee hath woman come, 


Unsullied to the grave ! 


As a tired wanderer back to home ! 




Unveiling many a timid guest 


When brightest names are breathed on, 


And treasured sorrow of her breast. 


When loftiest fall so fast, 


A buried love — a wasting care ! 


We would not call our brother back 


0, did those griefs win peace from prayer ? 


On dark days to be cast, — 




From the shadow of the pj-ramid, 


And did the poet's fervid soul 


Where his noble heart we laid, 


To thee lay bare its inmost scroll ? 


When the battle day was done. 


Those thoughts, which poiired thtir quencb 
less fire 


And the desert's parting sun 


A field of death surveyed. 


And passion o'er th' Italian lyre. 




Did they to still submission die 




Beneath thy calm, reUgious eye ? 


rO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. 


And hath the crested helmet bowed 




Before thee, 'midst the incense cloud ? 


" Ave Maria 1 May our spirits dare 


Hath the crowned leader's bosom lone 


liOOk up to thine, and to thy Son's above ? " — Bteon. 


To thee its haughty griefs made known? 


Fair vision ! thou'rt from sunny skies, 


Did thy glance break their frozen sleep. 


Born where the rose hath richest dyes ; 


And win th' unconquered one to weep ? 



Hushed is the anthem, closed the vow, 
The votive garland withered now ; 
Yet holy still to me thou art, 
Thou that hath soothed so many a heart ! 
And still must blessed iniluence flow 
From the meek glory of thy brow. 

Still speak to suffering woman's love ; 
Of rest for gentle hearts above ; 
Of hope, that hath its treasure thera ; 
Of home, that knows no changeful air. 
Bright form ! lit up with thoughts divine, 
Ave ! such power be ever thine ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 

xliw much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! 

The bridal day — the festival — the tomb — 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest 
flower ! 

Therefore with tby soft breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief. 

Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and 
brief. 

Not such thy spells o'er those that hailed thee 
first. 

In the clear light of Eden's golden day ! 
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst. 

Linked with no dim remembrance of decay. 

Rose ! for the banquet gathered, and the bier ; 

Rose ! colored now by human hope and pain ; 
Surely where death is not — nor change, nor 
fear, 

Yet may we meet thee, joy's own flower, again ! 



DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 

"We color heaven with our own human thoughts, 
Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, 
Our passionate love, that seems unto itself 
An immortality." 

Dream' ST thou of heaven ? What dreams are 
thine. 
Fair child, fair gladsome child ? 



With eyes that like the dewdrop shiaei 
And bounding footsteps wild 1 

Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 

Can wear, my bird ! to thee. 
Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 

Thy glance and spirit free ? 

" O, beautiful is heaven, and bright 
With long, long summer days ; 

I see its lilies gleam in light 
Where many a fountain plays. 

" And there unchecked, methinks, I rovet 
And seek where young flowers lie. 

In vale and golden-fruited grove 
Flowers that are not to die ! 

Thou poet of the lonely thought, 

Sad heir of gifts divine ! 
Say with what solemn glory fraught 

Is heaven in dreams of thine ? 

"0, where the living waters flow 

Along that radiant shore. 
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 

The exile thirst no more. 

" The burden of the stranger's heart 

Which here alone I bear. 
Like the night shadow shall depart 

With mj" first wakening there, 

" And borne on eagle wings afar, 
Free thought shall claim its dower 

From every realm, from every star, 
Of glory and of power." 

O woman ! with the soft, sad eye 

Of spiritual gleam. 
Tell me of those bright worlds on high. 

How doth thy fond hears dream ? 

By the sweet mournful voice I know. 

On thy pale brow I see, 
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe — 

Say, what is heaven to thee ? 

" O, heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt love's meeting hour, 

Where from the past no gloom is shed 
O'er the heart's chosen bower ; 

" Where every severed wreath is bound — 
Where none have heard the knell 



MISCELIANEOUS POEMS. 



681 



That smites the heart with that deep 
sound — 
Farewell, beloved! — farewell!" 



THE WISH. 

Come to me, -when my soul 
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 

"VMien earthly chains are as a shrivelled scroll, 
0, let me feel thy presence ! be but near ! 

That I may look once more 
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me ; 
That I may speak to thee of that bright 
shore 
Where, with our treasure, we have longed 
to be. 

Thou friend of many days ! 
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth ! XT 

Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth ? 

By every solemn thought 
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, 
From the deep voices of the mountains caught, 
O'er all th' adoring silence of the sky ; 

By every lofty theme 
Whereon, in low-toned reverence, we have 
spoken ; 
By our communion in each fervent dream 
rhat sought from realms beyond the grave a 
token ; 

And by our tears for those 
Whose loss hath touched our world with hues 
of death ; 
And by the hopes that with their dust re- 
pose, 
As flowers await the south wind's vernal breath ; 

Come to me in that day — 
The one — the severed from all days — O friend ! 
Even then, if human thought may then have 
sway, 
My Boul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. 

Nor then, nor there alone : 
I ask my heart if all indeed must die — 

All that of holiest feelings it hath known > 
4jid my heart's voice replies — Eternity ! 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OP KILKBNHT.l 

" Tes ! hide beneatli the mouldering heap, . 
The undelighted, sliglitcd thing; 
There in the cold earth, buried deeft 
lu silence let it wait the spring." 

Mrs. Tioue's " Poem on the Uly." 

I STOOD where the lip of song lay low, 
Where the dust had gathered on Beauty's brow 
Where stillness hung on the hea,rt of Love, 
And a marble weeper kept watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought. 
Of deep affections that inly wrought. 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear — 
They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by. 
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly ! 
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, 
No burden of mortal suff"erings. 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, 
Ovfr a bright world of joy and. bloom ; 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that severed thy life and miiie. 

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, 
Of love and grief its unfathomed springs ; 
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and 

sky. 
With voices to question eternity ! 

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, 
Like an embodied breeze at play ! 
Child of the sunlight ! thou winged and free ! 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee ! 

Thou art not lonely, though bom to roam. 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home ; 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and Dird, 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferred. 

In thy brief being no strife of mind. 
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined , 
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of my soul seemed infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flowed not her song from a heart that wept ? 



1 See the " Grave of a Poetess," p. 478, on the same swb. 
ject, and writter several y^ars previously to visiting till 
scene 




— O Love and Song ! though of heaven your 

powers, 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours. 

Yet, ere I turned from that silent place, 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race. 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 

Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth, gg 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 
O, fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies ! 



EPITAPH. 

Faeewell, beloved and mourned ! We miss a 

while 
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile. 
And that blessed gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent, 
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent. 
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, 

high. 
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. 
Yet from those very memories there is born 
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn : 
O, bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode, 
To meet at last " the pure in heart " with God ! 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF 
FIESCO, 

AS TKANSLATBD FEOM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, 

BY COLONEL d'AGUILAK, AND PEKFOEMED AT THE THEATEE 

BOYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBEE, 1832. 

Too long apart, a bright but severed band. 
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land 
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung — 
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. 
Brave hearts leaped proudly to their words of 

power. 
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour ; 
Fair eyes rained homage o'er th' impassioned 

lays. 
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 
While we, far distant, knew not, dreamed not, 

aught 
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. 

But let the barriers of the sea give way, 
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's 
sway ! 



And let the Rhine divide high souls no more 

From mingling on its old fieroic shore, 

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many 

an age 
Have made the poet's own free heritage ! 
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone 
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known ; 
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning 

tear. 
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here 
And if by one, more used on march and heath 
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath. 
With a warm heart the offering hath been 

brought. 
And in a trusting loyalty of thought. 
So let it be received ! — a soldier's hand 
Beai-s to the breast of no ungenerous land 
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time. 
Hath song held empire ; then, if not with/ame, 
Let the Green Isle with kindness bless his aim, 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread. 
Where once that harp " the soul of music shed I * 



TO GIULIO REGONDI, 

THE BOY GUITAKIST. 

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy ! 

Never may suffering wake a deeper tone 
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, 

Calls forth exulting from the chords which 
own 
Thy fairy touch ! O, mayst thou ne'er be 

taught 
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought) 

For in the light of those confiding eyes, 

And on th' ingenuous calm of that clear brow, 

A dower, more precious e'en than genius, lies, 
A pure mind's worth, a weirm heart's vema. 
glow ! 

God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle chi'.d 

Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiled 



O YE HOURS! 

O TE hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Floating lightly by. 
Are ye come with birds and flowers. 

Odors and blue sky ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



5Bt 



" Yes ! we come, again we come, 
Through the wood paths free, 

Bringing many a wanderer home, 
With the bird and bee." 

O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Are ye wafting song ? 
Doth. wUd music stream in showers 
All the groves among ? 

'• Yes ! the nightingale is there 

While the starlight reigns, 
Making young leaves and sweet air 

Tremble with her strains." 

O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

In 3'our silent flow 
Ye are mighty, mighty powers ! 

Bring ye bliss or woe ? 

* Ask not this — O, seek not this ! 

Yield your hearts a while 
To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 

And the heaven's bright smile. 

" Throw not shades of anxious though . 

O'er the glowing flowers ! 
We are come with sunshine fraught, 

Question not the hours ! " 



THE FREED BIRD. 

Retuhn, return, my bird ! 

I have dressed thy cage with flowers ; 
'Tis lovely as a violet bank 

In the heart of forest bowers. 

" I am free, I am free — I return no more ! 
rhe weary time of the cage is o'er ; 
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
The sky is around me — the blue, bright 

sky! 
fhe hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, 
With their glowing heath, flowers and bounding 
deer; 
see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 
am free, I am free — I return no more ! " 

Alas, alas ! my bird ! 

Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not blessed in thy little bower, 

When thy song breathed nought but glee ? 
74 



" Did my song of the summer breathe nough* 

but glee f 
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee 
— O, hadst thou known its deep meaning well. 
It had tales of a burning heart to tell ! 
From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 
Sighed for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 

Was it with thee thus, my bird ? 

Yet thine eye flashed clear and bright , 
I have seen the glance of sudden joy 

In its quick and dewy light. 

" It flashed with the fire of a tameless race, 
With the soul of the wildwood, my native place ! 
With the spirit that panted through heaven to 

soar : 
Woo me not back — I return no more ! 
My home is high, amidst rocking trees, 
My kindred things are the star and the breeze, 
And the fount unchecked in its lonely play, 
And the odors that wander afar away ! " 

Farewell — farewell, then, bird ! 

I have called on spirits gone. 
And it may be they joyed, like thee, to part — 

Like thee, that wert all my own ! 

" If they were captives, and pined like me. 

Though love may guard them, they joyed to be 
free ; 

They sprang from the earth with a biurst of 
power, 

To the strength of their wings, to their tri- 
umph's hour ! 

Call them not back when the chain is riven, 

When the way of the pinion is all through 
heaven ! 

Farewell ! — with my song through the cloudi 
I soar, 

I pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more ! " 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.' 

" Thou falcon-hearted doTe I " — Colebidox 

The Moslem spears were gleaming 
Round Damietta's towers, 



1 Queen of St. Louis. Wliilst besieged by the Turks i^ 
Damietta, during the captivity of the king her husband, she 
there gave birth to a son, whom s)ie named Tristan, in com- 



(86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Though a Christian banner from her wall 


Yet calmly lay the desolate. 


Waved free its lily flowers. 


With her young babe on her breast ! 


A.y, proudly did the banner wave, 




As queen of earth and air ; 


There were voices in the city, 


But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds 


Voices of wrath and fear — 


In anguish and despair. 


" The walls grow weak, the strife is Tain — 




We will not perish here ! 


Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon 


Yield ! yield ! and let the Crescent gleam 


Their kingly chieftain lay, 


O'er tower and bastion high ! 


And low on many an Eastern field 


Our distant homes are beautiful — 


Their knighthood's best array. 


We stay not here to die ! " 


'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 




The wine cup round to send ; 


They bore those fearful tidings 


For each that touched it silently 


To the sad queen where she lay — 


Then missed a gallant friend ! 


They told a tale of wavering hearts, 




Of treason and dismay : 


And mournful was their vigil 


The blood rushed through her pearly cheek, 


On the beleagured wall, 


The sparkle to her eye — 


And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 


" Now call me hither those recreant knights 


Of slow defeat and faU. , 


From the bands of Italy ! " ' 


Yet a few hearts of chivalry 




Rose high to breast the storm, 


Then through the vaulted chambers 


And one — of all the loftiest there — 


Stern iron footsteps rang ; 


Thrilled in a woman's form. 


And heavily the sounding floor 




Gave back the sabre's clang. 


A woman, meekly bending 


They stood around her — steel-clad men, 


O'er the slumber of her child. 


Moulded for storm and fight, 


With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love. 


But they quailed before the loftier soul 


As the Virgin Mother's mild. 


In that pale aspect bright. 


0, roughly cradled was thy babe. 




'Midst the clash of spear and lance. 


Yes ! as before the falcon shrinks 


And a strange, wild bower was thine, young 


The bird of meaner wing. 


queen ! 


So shrank they from th' imperial glar *e 


Fair Marguerite of France i 


Of her — that fragile thing ! 




And her flute-like voice rose clear and high 


A dark and vaulted chamber, 


Through the din of arms around — 


Like a scene for wizard spell. 


Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, 


Deep in the Saracenic gloom 


As a silver claiion's sound. 


Of the warrior citadel ; 




And there 'midst arms the couch was spread. 


«' The honor of the Lily 


And with banners curtained o'er, 


Is in your hands to keep. 


For the daughter of the minstrel land. 


And the banner of the Cross, for Him 


The gay Provencal shore ! 


Who died on Calvary's steep ; 




And the city which for Christian prayer 


For the bright queen of St. Louis, 


Hath heard the holy bell — 


The star of court and hall ! 


And is it these your hearts would yield 


But the deep strength of the gentle heart 


To the godless infidel? 


Wakes to the tempest's call ! 




Her lord was in the Paynim's hold. 


" Then bring me here a breastplate 


His soul with grief oppressed. 


And a helm, before ye fly, 


fflemoration ot her misfortunes. Information being con- 


wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend hei 


reyed to her, that the knights intrusted with the defence 


and the Cross to the last extremity 


•f the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them sum- 


1 The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the Frenck 


noned to her apartment; and, by her heroic words, so 


historian to the knights of Pisa. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



68"! 



And I will gird my woman's form, 

And on the ramparts die ! 
And the boy whom I have borne for woe, 

But never for disgrace, 
Shall go M'ithin mine arms to death 

Meet for his royal race. 

Look oi. him as he slumbers 

In tb'; ^hadow of the lance ! 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

To perish undefiled ; 
A woman, and a queen, to guard 

Her honor and her child ! " 

Before her words they thrilled, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier mood. 
And her babe awoke to flashing swords, 

Unsheathed in many a hand. 
As they gathered round the helpless one, 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors, lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ; 
The spirit of thy kindling words 

On every sword shall be ! 
Kest, with thy fair child on thy breast ! 

Rest — we will guard thee well ! 
St. Denis for the Lily flower 

A-nd the Christian citadel ! " 



THE WANDERER. 

rBABSLATED FEOM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBE OB. 

I COME down from the hills alone ; 
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan ! 
I wander on in thoughtful care, 
Forever asking, sighing — where f 

TTie sunshine round seems dim and cold. 
And flowers are pale, and Ufe is old. 
And words faU soulless on my ear — 
O, I am still a stranger here ! 

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine 

own! 
Still sought for, longed for, never known ? 
The land, the land of hope, of light. 
Where glow my roses freshly bright, 



And where my friends the green paths tread, 
And where in beauty rise my dead ; 
The land that speaks my native speech, 
The blessed land I may not reach ! 

I wander on in thoughtful care, 
Forever asking, sighing — where f 
And spirit sounds come answering this — 
" There, where thou art }Wt, there is bliss I " 



THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST 
WASP OF SCOTLAND, 

— A. jeu-d' esprit produced at this time, wliich owed its on- 
gin to a simple remark on the unseasonaI)leness of th« 
weather, made by Mrs. Ilenians to Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick 
Sharpe, whom she was in tlie habit of seeing at Sir David 
Wedderburn's. " It is so little like summer," she said, 
" that I have not even seen a butterfly." " A butterfly ! " 
retorted Mr. Sharpe, " I have not even seen a wasp ! " 
The next morning, as if in confutation of tliis calumny, a 
wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn's breakfast 
table. Mrs. Hemans immediately proposed that it should 
be made a prisoner, enclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr. 
Sharpe : this was accordingly done, and the piquant missive 
was acknowledged by him as follows : — 

"SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER OF 
MILTON, &;c., BUT MUCH SUPERIOR. 

" Poor insect ! rash as rare ! Thy sovereign,* 

sure. 
Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace — 
Else what delusion could thy sense allure 
To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, 
Where e'en the hornet's hoarser, and the race 
Of filmy wing are feeble ? Honey here 
(Scarce as its rhyme) thou find'st not. Ah, 

beware 
Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear ! ' 
Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal 

lyre, 
Have pent thee ujj, a second Asmodeus, 
I wail thy doom — 1 warm thee by the fire, 
And blab our secrets — do not thou betray lU ' 
I give thee libert)', I give thee breath. 
To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death . 

To tliis Mrs. Hoiiians returned the following rejoinder: 

Soothed by the strain, the Wasp thus mad« 

reply — 
(The first, last time he sf oke not waspishly) 



1 Beelzebub is the king cf flies. 

» A beautiful allusion U our starvins weaven. 



S88 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



•■• Too late, kind poet ! comes tliine aid, thy song, 
To aught first starved, then bottled up so long, 
yet for the warmth of this thy genial fire, 
Take a Wasp's blessing ere his race expire : — 
Never may provost's foot find entrance here ! 
Never may baillie's voice invade thine ear ! 
Sever may housemaid wipe the verd antique 
From coin of thine — Assyrian, Celt, or Greek ! 
L^ever may Eurus cross thy path ! — to thee 
Hay winds and wynds ' alike propitious be ! 
And when thou diest (live a thousand years !) 
May friends fill classic bottles " with their tears ! 
I can no more — receive my parting gasp ! — 
Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering 



TO CAROLINE. 



V- 



When thy bounding step I hear, 
And thy soft voice, low and clear ; 
When thy glancing eyes I meet, 
In their sudden laughter sweet — 
Thou, I dream, wert surely born 
For a path by care unworn ! 
Thou must be a sheltered flower, 
With but sunshine for thy dower. 

Ah, fair child ! not e'en for thee 
May this lot of brightness be ; 
Yet, if grief must add a tone 
To thine accents now unknown ; 
If within that cloudless eye 
Sadder thought must one day lie, 
Still I trust the signs which teU 
On thy life a light shall dwell, 
Light — thy gentle spirit's own, 
From within around thee thrown. 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 

" Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flow«)r 
In the torrid wastes of Africa 'i The affecting mention of the in- 
fluence of a ilower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of 
■ufiering and despondency, in the heart of the same savage cou • 
by, is familiar to every one." — Howiii's " Book of the Seasons.'* 

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 
O lonely, loneliest flower ! 

1 Alluding to antiquarian visits to these renowned closes^ 
> Rererring to certain precious lachrymatories in the pos- 
■Msion of Mr. Sharpe. 



Where the sound of song hath never passed 
From human hearth or bower ? 

I pity thee, for thy heart of love, 

For that glowing heart, that fain 
Would breathe out joy with each wind %t 
rove — 

In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 

For thy glory's fleeting hour, 
For the desert place, thy living tomb — 

O, lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmarked must die, 

They have had a glorious dower. 

"Though it bloom afar from the minstrer> 
way, 

And the paths where lovers tread ; 
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 

By its odors have been shed. 

'« Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 

O'er island of the blest 
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell. 

On a siiifering human breast. 

'« A war^erer came, as a stricken deer. 

O'er thv vaste of burning sand, 
He bore the wound of an Arab spoar, 

He fled from a ruthless band. 

" And dreams of home in a troubled tids 

Swept o'er his darkening eye, 
As he lay down by the fountain side, 

In his mute despair to die. 

" But his glance was caug'ht by the desert'l 
flower, 

The precious boon of Heaven ; 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, 

To his fainting heart was given. 

" For the bright flower spoke of One aoove -" 

Of the presence felt to brood, 
With a spirit of pervading love, 

O'er the wildest solitude. 

" O, the seed was thrown those wastes among 

In a blessed and gracious hour. 
For the lorn rose in heart made strong. 

By the lonely, loneliest flower I " 



HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 68k 


HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 


INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 


Which, waiting but that balmy fall, 




In hidden beauty lay. 


O, BLEST art thou whose steps may rove 




Through th? green paths of vale and grove, 


E'en now full 3iany a blossom's bell 


Or, leaving all their charms below, 


With fragrance fills the shade ; 


Climb the wild mountain's airy brow, — 


And verdure clothes each grassy deU, 




In brighter tints arrayed. 


And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 




And cities with their stately fanes. 


But mark ! what arch of varied hue 


And forests, that beneath thee lie. 


From heaven to earth is bowed ? 


And ocean mingUng with the sky. 


Haste, ere it vanish ! — haste to view 




The rainbow in the cloud ! 


For man can show thee nought so fair 




ks Nature's varied marvels there ; 


How bright its glory ! there behold 


And if thy pure and artless breast 


The emerald's verdan,t rays. 


Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 


The topaz blends its hue of gold 




With the deep ruby's blaze. 


For thee the stream in beauty flows, 




For thee the gale of summer blows ; 


Yet not alone to charm thy sight 


And, in deep glen and wood walk free, 


Was given the vision fair — 


Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 


Gaze on that arch of colored light, 




And read God's mercy there. 


But happier far, if then thy soul 




Can soar to Him who made the whole, 


It tells us that the mighty deep, 


K to thine eye the simplest flower 


Fast by the Eternal chained, ^ 


Portray His bounty and His power ! 


No more o'er earth's domain shall sweep. 




Awful and unrestrained. 


K, in whate'er is bright or grand. 




Thy mind can trace his viewless hand ; 


It tells that seasons, heat and cold. 


1£ Nature's music bid thee raise 


Fixed by his sovereign will, 


Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 


Shall, in their course, bid man behold 




Seed time and harvest still ; 


If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught. 




Lead to His throne the raptured thought ; 


That still the flower shall deck the field, 


If there thou lov'st Ills love to read — 


When vernal zephjTS blow, 


Then, wanderer ! thou art blest indeed. 


That still the vine its fruit shall yield. 




When autumn sunbeams glow. 




Then, child of that fair earth ! which yet 


THE RAINBOW. 


Smiles with each charm endowed. 




Bless thou His name, whose mercy set 


t do set my bow in the cloud, and it aliall be for a token of a 
coTenant between me and the earth." — Genesis ix. 13. 


The rainbow in the cloud ! 


Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 




From April's changeful skies, 




And raindrops bend each trembling flower 


THE SUN. 


They tinge with richer dyes. 






The sun comes forth : each mountain height 


eoon shall their genial influence call 


Glows with a tinge of rosy light, 


A thousand buds to-day, 


And flowers that slumbered through the nieht 



690 HYMNS FOR 


CHlLDHOOn, 


Their dewy leaves unfold ; 


Through cities or through shades, they flow 


A flood of splendor bursts on high, 


To the same boundless deep. 


And ocean's breast gives back a sky 




All steeped in molten goid. 


0, thus, whate'er our path of life, 




Through sunshine or through gloom, 


0, thou art glorious, orb of day ! 


Through scenes of quiet or of strife. 


Exulting nations hail thy ray, 


Its end is stiU the tomb. 


Creation swells a choral lay 




Co welcome thy return ; 


The chief -whose mighty deeds we hail, 


Prom thee all nature draws her hues, 


The monarch throned on high. 


Thy beams the insect's wing suffuse, 


The peasant in his native vale — 


And in the diamond burn. 


All journey on to die ! 


Yet must thou fade ! When earth and heaven 


But if thy guardian care, my God ! 


By earth and tempest shall be riven, 


The pilgrim's course attend. 


Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, 


I will' not fear the dark abode 


Sun ! must fall at last ; 


To which my footsteps bend. 


Another heaven, another earth. 




New power, new glory shall have birth. 


For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 


When all we see is past. 


Who died the world to save. 




In light, in triumph, rose, and won 


But He who gave the word of might. 


The victory from the grave. 


" Let there be light," — and there was light, — 




Who bade thee chase the gloom of night, 




And beam the world to bless ; 





Forever bright, forever pure. 




Alone unchanging shall endure. 




The Sun of Highteousness ! 


THE STARS. 




" The heaveng declare the glory of God, and the firm«ment ihow 




eth his handiwork." — Psalm lix. 1. 


THE RIVERS. 


No cloud obscures the summer sky, 




The moon in brightness walks on high 


Go ! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er ewth 


And, set in azure, every star 


That wind their devious course, 


Shines, a pure gem of heaven, afar ! 


That draw from Alpine heights their bii .h, 




Deep vale, or cavern source. 


Child of the earth ! 0, lift thy glance 




To yon bright firmament's expanse ; 


Some by majestic cities glide, 


The glories of its realm explore. 


Proud scenes of man's renown ; 


And gaze, and wonder, and adore ' 


Some lead their solitai-y tide 




iVh.ere pathless forests frown. 


Doth it not speak to every sense 




The marvels of Omnipotence 


Some calmly roll o'er golden sands. 


Seest thou not there the almighty Name 


Where Afric's deserts lie ; 


Inscribed in characters of flame ? 


Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 




With rich fertility. 


Count o'er these lamps of quenchless ligh? 




That sparkle through the shades of night : 


These bear the bark, whose stately sail 


Behold them ! can a mortal boast 


Exulting seems to swell ; 


To number that celestial host ? 


While these, scarce rippled by a gale, 




Sleep \v the lonely dell. 


Mark well each little star, whose rays 




In distant splendor meet thy gaze : 


Yet ori, alike, though swift or slow 


Each is a world, by Him sustained 


Their various waves mav sweep. 


Who from eternity hath reisjned. 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



691 



Each, kindled not for earth alone, 
Hath circling planets of its own, 
And beings, \vhoi?e existence springs 
From Him, the all-powerful King of kings. 

Haplj', those glorious beings know- 
No stain of guilt, or tear of woe ; 
But, raising still th' adoring voice, 
Forever in their God rejoice. 

What then art thou, O child of clay ! 
Amid creation's grandeur, say ? 
E'en as an insect on the breeze. 
E'en as a dewdrop, lost in seas ! 

Yet fear thou not ! The sovereign Hand 
Which spread the ocean and the land. 
And hung the rolUng spheres in air, 
Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 

Be thou at peace ! Th' all-seeing Eye, 
Pervading earth, and air, and sky — 
The searching glance which none may flee, 
Is still in mercy turned on thee. 



THE OCEAN. 

" They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great 
Irate !S; these see the works of tlie Lord, and his wonders in the 
ieep." — Psalm cvii. 23, 24. 

He that in venturous barks hath been 

A wanderer on the deep. 
Can tell of many an awful scene. 

Where storms forever sweep. 

For many a fair, majestic sight 

Hath met his wandering eye. 
Beneath the streaming northern light, 

Or blaze of Indian sky. 

Go ! ask him of the whirlpool's roar. 
Whose echoing thunder peals 

Loud, as if rushed along the shore 
An army's chariot wheels ; 

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main. 

Or iixed upon the coast. 
Like glittering citadel or fane. 

Mid the bright realms of frost ; 

Of ooral rocks from waves belo-w 
In steep ascent that tower. 



And, fraught with peril, daily grow 
Formed by an insect's power ; 

Of sea fires, which at dead of night 

Shine o'er the tides afar. 
And make th' expanse of ocean bright, 

As heaven with many a star. 

God ! thy name they well may praise 

Who to the deep go do-«Ti, 
And trace the wonders of thy ways 

Where rocks and billows frown ! 

If glorious be that awful deep 

No human power can bind. 
What then art thou, who bidd'st it keep 

Within its bounds confined ! 

Let heaven and earth in praise unite I 

Eternal praise to thee. 
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might 

Or still the ragmg sea ! 



THE THUNDER STORM. 

Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky 

Dead stillness reigns in air ; 
There is not e'en a breeze, on high 

The gossamer to bear. 

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest, 

The lake is dark and still. 
Reflecting on its shadowy breast 

Each form of rock and hill. 

The lime leaf waves not in the grove, 

The rose tree in the bower ; 
The birds have ceased their songs of loyie, 

Awed by the threatening hour. 

'Tis noon ; yet nature's calm profound 

Seems as at midnight deep . 
But hark ! what peal of awful sound 

Breaks on creation's sleep ? 

The thunder burst ! its rolling might 
Seems the firm hills to shake ; 

And in terrific splendor bright 
The gathered lightnings break. 

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child"' 
Though by the bolt's descent 





592 HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 


"Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled, 


Around the o'erhanging rock ; 




And the wide forests rent. 


Fearless they skim the angry wave, 
Or, sheltered in their sea-beat cave, 




Doth not thy God behold thee still, 


The tempest's fury mock. 




With all- surveying eye ? 






Doth not his power all nature fill, 


Where Afric's burning realm expands, 




Around, beneath, on high ? 


The ostrich haunts the desert sands, 
Parched by the blaze of day ; 




Know, hadst thou eagle pinions free, 


The swan, where northern rivers glide, 




To track the realms of air. 


Through the tall reeds that fringe their tid« 




Thou couldst not reach a spot, where he 


Floats graceful on her way. 




Would not be with thee there ! 


The condor, where the Andes tower. 




In the wide citj^'s peopled towers. 


Spreads his broad wing of pride and power 




On the vast ocean's plains, 


And many a storm defies ; 




'Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers, 


Bright in the Orient realms of morn, 




Alike the Almighty reigns ! 


All beauty's richest hues adorn 
The bird of paradise. 




Then fear not, though the angry sky 






A thousand darts should cast ; 


Some, amidst India's groves of palm. 




Why should we tremble, e'en to die, 


And spicy forests breathing balm, 




And be with Him at last ? 


Weave soft their pendent nest ; 
Some, deep in Western wilds, display 






Their fairy form and plumage gay. 
In rainbow colors dressed. 




THE BIRDS. 






ire not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of 
them is forgotten before God ? "— St. Luke xii. 6. 


Others no varied song may pour. 

May boast no eagle plume to soar, 

No tints of light may wear ; 




Tribes of the air ! whose favored race 


Yet know, our heavenly Father guidsfl 




May wander through the realms of space, 


The least of these, and well provides 




Free guests of earth and sky ; 


For each with tenderest care. 




In form, in plumage, and in song. 






What gifts of nature mark your throng 


Shall he not then thy guardian be ? 




With bright variety ! 


WiU not his aid extend to thee ? 
0, safely mayst thou rest ! — 




Nor differ less your forms, your flight. 


Trust in his love ; and e'en should pain, 




Your dwellings hid from hostile sight. 


Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain. 




And the wild haunts ye love ; 


Know what he wills is best ! 




Birds of the gentle beak ! ' how dear 






Your Avood note to the wanderer's ear. 






In shadowy vale or grove ! 






Far other scenes, remote, sublime. 


THE SKYLARK. 




Where swain or hunter may not climb 
The mountain eagle seeks ; 


child's morning hymn. 




Alone he reigns a monarch there. 


The skylark, when the dews of mom 




Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare 


Hang tremulous on flower and thorn. 




Ascend his Alpine peaks. 


And violets round his nest exhale 
Their fragrance on the early gale. 




Others there are that make their home 


To the first sunbeam spreads his wings, 




Where the white billows roar and foam 


Buoyant with joy, and soars and singi, 




1 Tha Italians call all sioging birds birds of Ou gentie 
Uoft. 


He rests not on the leafy spray 
To warble his exulting lay : 



HYMNS FOR 


CHILDHOOD. 593 


But high above the morning cloud 


And balmy sleep and visions blest 


Mounts in triumphant freedom proud, 


Smile on thy servant's bed of rest. 


And swells, when nearest to the sky, 




Hii» notes of sweetest ecstasy. 




Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 




My spirit's wing to thee can soar, 
The more she triumphs to behold 


THE NORTHERN SPRIN'O. 


Thy love in all thy works unfold. 


When the soft breath of spring goes forth 


And bids her hymns of rapture be 


Far o'er the mountains of the North, 


Most glad, when rising most to thee ! 


How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 




With life, and bloom, and beauty glow ! 




Then bursts the verdure of the plains ; 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


Then break the streams from icy chains , 
And the glad reindeer seeks no more 


child's evening hymn. 


Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 


When twilight's gray and pensive hour 


Then the dark pine- wood's boughs are seen 


Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, 


Fringed tenderly with living green ; 


And bids the solitary star 


And roses, in their brightest dyes. 


Shine in pale beauty from afar ; 


By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 


When gathering shades the landscape veil. 


Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 


And peasants seek their village dale. 


And the cold fetters of the tomb. 


And mists from river wave arise, 


Thus shall the blessed Redeemer's voice 


And dew in every blossom lies ; 


Call forth his servants to rejoice. 


When evening's primrose opes to shed 


For He, whose word is truth, hath said, 


Soft fragrance round her grassy bed ; 


His power to life shall wake the dead, 


When glowworms in the wood walk light 


And summon those he loves on high. 


Their lamp to cheer the traveller's sight ; 


To " put on immortality ! " 


At that calm hour, so still so pale. 


Then, all its transient sufferings o'er, 


Awakes the lonely nightingale ; 


On wings of light the soul shall soar, 


And from a hermitage of shade 


Exulting, to that blest abode 


Fills with her voice the forest glade. 


Where tears of sorrow never flowed. 


And sweeter far that melting voice 




Than all which through the day rejoice ; 




And still shall bard and wanderer love 




The twilight music of the grove. 






PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII 


Father in heaven ! 0, thus when day 




With all its cares hath passed away, 
And silent hours waft peace on earth, 


"Praiee ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heaTen» 
praise him in the heights." 


And hush the louder strains of mirth ; 


Pkaise ye the Lord ! on every height 




Songs to his glory raise ! 


Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 


Ye angel hosts, ye stars of night, 


To thee my spirit's offering bear — 


Join in immortal praise ! 


Yon star, my signal, set on high. 




For vesper hymns of piety. 


heaven of heavens ! let praise far swelling 




From all thine orbs be sent ! 


So may thy mercy and thy power 


Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling 


Protect me through the midnight hour, 
76 


Above the firmament ! 



ff94 LYRICS. 


Por his the word which gave you birth, 


Creatures of life that wing the skies. 


And majesty, and might : 


Or track the plains for food ! 


Praise to the Highest from the earth, 




And let the deeps unite ! 


Judges of nations ! kings, whose hand 




Waves the proud sceptre high ! 


fire and vapor, hail and snow ! 


youths and virgins of the land ! 


Ye servants of his will ; 


age and infancy ! 


stormy winds ! that oiJy blow 




His mandates to fulfil ; 


Praise ye his name, to whom alone 




All homage should be given ; 


Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise ! 


Whose glory from th' eternal throne 


Fair cedars of the wood ! 


Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven ! 


NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 


TO 

MRS. LAWRENCE, 


OP WAVEETEEE HALL, HEH FRIEND 


AND THE SISTER OP HER FRIEND 


COLONEL d'AGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, IN REMEMBRANCE 0» 1 


MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED 


HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMANS. 


NATIONAL LYRICS. 


Where'er a blessed home hath been 




That now is home no more : 


THE THEMES OF SONG. 


A place of ivy, darkly green. 




Where laughter's light is o'er. 


■ Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 




And melancholy fear subdued by faith." — Wobd3 wokth. 






Where'er by some forsaken grave, 


Where shall the minstrel find a theme ? 


Some nameless greensward heap. 


— Where'er, for freedom shed. 


A bird may sing, a wild flower wave. 


Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 


A star its vigil keep. 


Amidst the mountains, red. 


1 
1 




Or where a yearning heart of old. 


Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove 


A dream of shepherd men. 


Bears record to the faith 


With forms of more than earthly mould 


Of love — deep, holy, fervent love. 


Hath peopled grot or glen. 


Victor o'er fear and death. 






There may the bard's high themes be found - 


Where'er a chieftain's crested brow 


We die, we pass away ; 


Too soon hath been struck down, 


But faith, love, pity — these are bound 


Or a bright virgin head laid low, 


To earth without decay. 


Wearing its youth's first crown. 


J 

i 




The heart that burns, the cheek thai \ 


Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 


glows, 1 


Through storm and summer air, 


The tear from hidden springs, i 


] Telling, that all around have striven 


The thorn and glory of the rose — 


Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

( 


These are undying things. 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



59j 



Wave after wav? of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

Th' exhaustless flood rolls on. 



KHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOL- 
DIERS AFTER VICTORY. 

TO THE AIR OF "AM EHEIN, AM KHEIM." 

SINGLE VOICE. 

fi is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine ! (bis.) 

Sing on the march with every banner waving — 
Sing brothers I 'tis the Rhine ! {bis.) 

CHOEUS. 

The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! 

Be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver — 

We bear thee freedom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of 
water. 

Even as my mother's sbng ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter. 

And heart and arm grew strong ! 

CHOBUS. 

Roll proudly on ! — brave blood is with thee 
sweeping, 
Poured out by sons of thine, 
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leap- 
ing. 
Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! home ! Thy glad wave hath a tone of 
greeting. 
Thy path is by my home, 
Even now my children count the hours till 
meeting : 
O ransomed ones ! I come. 

CHORUS. 

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee 
never ! 

Soand on by hearth and shrine ! 
Sing through the hills that thou art free forever — 

Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! 



[" I wish you :ould have heard Sir Walter Scott describe 
» glorious sight, wh ch had *)een w tnessed by a friend of 



his — the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by th« 
German army of liberators on their victorious return from 
France. ' At the first gleam of the river,' he said, ' they all 
burst forth into the national chant, Jim Rhsiii! Jim Rhein!* 
They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the 
castle were ringing to the song the whole time — for each 
band renewed it while crossing ; and even the Cossack* 
with the clash and the clang, and the roll of theif stormj 
war music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled 
forth the chorus, ' .4m 7?/teJn .' jlm Rhein."" — Manuscript 
leWr. 

This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs. Henians'a 
own " Rhine Song,") and the look and tone with which it 
was related, made an impression on her memoi-y which 
nothing could efface. The very name of the " Father 
Rhine," the " exulting and abounding river," (how often 
would she quote that magnificent line of Lord Byron's!) 
had always worked upon her like a spell, conjuring up a 
thousand visions of romance and beauty ; and Haydn's in- 
spiring RheiniDeinlieil, with its fine, rich tide of flowing har 
moiiy, was one (/f the airs she most delighted in. " You 
are quite right," she wrote to a friend who had echoed her 
enthusiasm, " it was the description of that noble Rhine 
scene which interested n'.e more than any part of Sir Wal- 
ter's conversation ; and I wished more that you could have 
heard it than all the high legends and solemn scenes o* 
which we spoke that day."] 



A SONG OF DELOS. 

[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiai 
sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to b« 
desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the follow 
ing poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to bfi con- 
veyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sick- 
ness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden 
flow of unpremeditated song.] 

" Terre, soleil, vollons, belle et douce nature, 
Je vous dois une larine mix bords de mon tombeau ; 
L'air est si parfunie ! la lumiere est si pure I 
Aux regards d'un Mourantle soleil est si bean I" — Lamabtinb 

A SONG was heard of old — a low, sweet song, 
On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, 
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl — 
Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien. 
Lit with a life too perilously bright — 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying ! — but for her. 
The child of beauty and of poesy. 
And of soft Grecian skies — O, who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye flashed forth, 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starrj 

tears. 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Colored with loving light, she gazed her last. 
Her young life's last, that hour ! From hei 

pale brow 
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back« 
And bending forward, as the spirit swayed 



The rsed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan music of her wild fare- 
well 
O'er dancing waves : — " O, linger yet ! " she 
cried, — 

" O, linger, linger on the oar ! 

O, pause upon the deep ! 
That I may gaze yet once, once more 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and 

steep ! 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet 

shore — 
O, linger, linger on the parting oar f 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 

Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 
I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming 

line ; 
I hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng ! 

" 0, linger, linger on the oar, 

Beneath my native sky ! 
Let my life part from that bright shore 
With day's last crimson — gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! — slowly should be 

borne 
The voyager that never shall return. 

'• A fatal gift hath been thy dower. 

Lord of the lyre ! to me ; 
With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
Sisters went bounding Hke young Oreads free ; 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours 

apart, 
Have lain and listened to my beating heart. 

" Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 

I sink to early rest ; 
The ray that lit the incense pyre 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
— O sunshine, skies, rich flowers ! too soon 

I go, 
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 

" Bright isle ! might but thine echoes keep 

A tone of my farewell. 
One tender accent, low and deep. 
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 

dweU! 
Might my last breath send music to thy 

shore ! 
— O, linger, seamen ! linger on the oar ! 



ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTOR'S 

" Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade." — BTBOir. 

lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home ; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine ! 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute 

Through the blue, triumphant sky ! 

Let the cittern's tone salute 
The sons of victory. 

With the ofi"ering of bright blood 

They have ransomed hearth and tomb» 

Vineyard, and field, and flood ; — 
lo ! they come, they come ! 

Sing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea, 
And o'er each hero's grave — 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars. 

And the spears that light the deep ? 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep ! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; — 
Maid, greet thy lover home ! 

Mother, from that proud field, 
lo ! thy son is come ! 

Who murmured of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know 
That many a shining head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day ! 

They shall have their praise ere long 
And a power all hearts to sway, 

In ever-burning song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine. 
To hail the conquerors home ! 

Bring wrfeaths for every shrine — 
lo ! they come, they come ! 



NAPLES. 

A SONG OF THE SIREW. 

" Then gentle winds arose, 
With many a mingled close 
Of wild ^oUan sound and mountain odor I 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



69t 



Where the clear Baian Ocean 

Welters with air-like motion 

Within, above, around its bowers of storry green." 

Shkllkt. 

Still is the Siren warbling on thy shore, 
Bright city of the waves ! Her magic song 
Still, with a dreamy sense ofL^cstasy, 
Pills thy soft summer air : — and while my 

glance 
Dwells on thy pictiired loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 
Daughter of sunshine ! doth the Siren sing. 

" Thine is the glad wave's flashing play. 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day — 
The golden day, and the glorious night. 
And the vine with its clusters aU bathed in 
light ! 
- Forget, forget, that thou art not free ! 
Queen of the summer sea. 

" Favored and crowned of the earth and sky ! 

Thine are all voices of melody. 

Wandering in moonlight through fane and 

tower. 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 
Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea — 
Forget that thou art not free ! 

"Let the wine flow in thy marble halls ! 
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls ! 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough. 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Queen of the day and the summer sea. 

Forget that thou art not free ! " 

So doth the Siren sing, while sparkling waves 
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, 
O city of the deep ! from Sibyl grots 
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone, 

Murmuring — " Thou art not free ! " 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 

[The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell 
nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by 
night. He had left his reftiment, that of Auvergne, at a 
ihort distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambus- 
iade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death 
f he made the least sign of their vicinity. With t'.ieir bayo- 
nets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud, "A 
Bioi, Auvergne ! cos sont les cnnemis ! " fell, pierced with 
laortal blowa.l 



Alone through gloomy forest shades 

A soldier went by night ; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round 
The youth all cheerly passed ; 

Unchecked by aught of boding sound 
That muttered in the blasu 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour 
— In his far home, perchance ; 

His father's hall, his mother's bower, 
'Midst the gay vines of France i 

Wandering from battles lost and won. 

To hear and bless again 
The rolling of the wide Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 

Hush ! hark ! — did stealing steps go by ? 

Came not faint whispers near ? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh 

Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark yet again ! — and from his hand 
What grasp hath wrenched the blade ? 

— O, single 'midst a hostile band. 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betrayed ' 

" Silence ! " in undertones they cry — 
" No whisper — not a breath ! 

The sound that warns thy comrades laph. 
Shall sentence thee to death." 

Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, 
And strong to meet the blow ; 

And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, 
" Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe ! " 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle call 
He heard their tumults grow ; 

And sent his dj'ing voice through all — 
" Auvergne, Auvergne ! the foe ! " 



THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE 
CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY, 1087. 

3" At the day appointed for the king's interment, Princ« 
Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude 
of clergy and people, assembled in the Church of St. Ste- 
pher which the cotiqiieror had founded. The mass had been 



598 


LYRICS. 


perfonned, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop 


" The land that I have tilled 


of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the dece 
when a voice from the crowd exclaimed, ' He wliom 
have praised was a robber. The very land on which 


isedi 
you 
you 


Hath yet its brooding breast 
With mj-^ home's white ashes filled, 


stand is raina By violence he took it from my father ; 


and, 


And it shall not give him rest ! 


in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.' 


The 




speaker was Asceline Fitz-Arthur, who had often, but fruit- 
lessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After 
some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him six- 


" Each pillar's massy bed 

Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 


ty shillings for the grave, and promised that he shouk 


re- 


Away ! bestow your dead 


eeive the full value of his land. The ceremony was 


then 


Where no wrong against him cries.* 


continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of 




rtone." — LiNGABD, vol. ii. p. 98.] 




Shame glowed on each dark face 


Lowly upon his bier 




Of those proud and steel-girt men, 


The royal conqueror lay ; 




And they bought with gold a place 


Baron and chief stood near, 




For their leader's dust e'en then. 


Silent in war array. 




A little earth for him 


Down the long minster's aisle 




Whose banner flew so far ! 


Crowds mutely gazing streamed ; 




And a peasant's tale could dim 


Altar and tomb the while 




The name, a nation's star ! 


Through mists of incense gleamed. 




One deep voice thus arose 


And, by the torches' blaze, 




From a heart which wrongs had riven : 


The stately priest had said 




0, who shall number those 


High words of power and praise 




That were but heard in heaven ? 


To the glory of the dead. 






They lowered him, with the sound 






Of requiems, to repose ; 




V 


When from the throngs around 




^', 


A solemn voice arose ; — 




SONGS OF A GUAKDIAN SPIRIT 


" Forbear ! forbear ! " it cried ; 






" In the holiest Name, forbear ! 




NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE! 


He hath conquered regions wide, 






But he shall not slumber there ! 




Neah thee, still near thee ! — o'er thy pathway 
gliding. 


" By the violated hearth 




Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 


Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 


Life's veil infolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 


By the harvests which this earth 




Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 


Hath borne for me and mine ; 




Not 'midst the festal throng. 
In halls of mirth and song ; 


"By the house e'en here o'erthrown 




But when thy thoughts are deepest, 


On my brethren's native spot ; 




When holy tears thou weepest, 


Hence ! with his dark renown 




Know then that love is nigh ! 


Cumber our birthplace not ! 




When the night's whisper o'er thy harpstringi 


" Win my sire's unransomed field. 




creeping, 


O'er which your censers wave, 




Or the sea music on the sounding shore, 


To the buried spoiler yield 




Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping 


Soft slumbers in the grave ! 




Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 
When every thought and prayer 


" The tree before him fell 




We loved to breathe and share. 


Which we cherished many a year ; 




On thy full heart returning, 


But its deep root yet shall swell, 




Shall wake its voiceless yearning. 


And heave against Ids bier. 




Then feel me near once more ! 



SONGS OF SPAI^. 



69t 



Near thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul's 

deep dreaming ! 
0, love is not an earthly rose to die ! 
Sliven when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 
rhine image wanders with me through the 
sky. 
The fields of air are free, 
Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 
But when thy chains are falling. 
When heaven its own is calling. 
Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 



O, DROOP THOU NOT. 

Chey oin who tell us love can die I 

With life all other passions fly — 

411 others are but vanity. 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 

Earthly these passions, as of earth— 

They perish where they drew their birth. 

But love is indestructible I 

Its holy flame forever bumeth — 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth." — Soitthbt. 

0, BKOOP thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 

Mine still to be ! 
I Lore through death, to brighter lands above, 

My thoughts of thee. 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer, 
Our suffering love, through long-devoted years, 

Went with me there. 

It was not vain, the hallowed and the tried — 

It was not vain ! 
Rtill, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone ; 

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou 
weepest — 

That stream whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known ; 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking. 

Silent ani fast ; 



Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance, 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars art 
burning 

O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around 
thee. 

Where'er thou art ; 
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound 
thee. 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken : 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken 

They are of heaven. 



SONGS OF SPAIN. 
ANCIENT BATTLE SONG- 

Fling foi ch the proud banner of Leon again ! 
Let the high word, Castile ! go resounding 

through Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias ! encamped on the 

height. 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake ! wake ! the old soil where thy children 

repose 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes ! 

The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast j 
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread. 
Their pines murmur song where bright blood 

hath been shed. 
— Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again. 
And shout ye, " Castile ! to the rescue lot 

Spain ! " 



THE ZEGRI MAID. 

[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorisll 
tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rival^ 
the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spa* 
ish romances.] 

The summer leaves were sighing 

Around the Zegri maid. 
To her low, sad song replying. 

As it filled the olive shade 



600 LYRICS. 


" Alas ! for her that loveth 


Thou shouldst have echoes 


Her land's, her kindred's foe ! 


For griefs deepest tone — 


Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, 


Flow, Rio Verde ! 


Should a Zegri's spirit go ? 


Softly flow on ! 


" From thy glance, my gentle mother ! 




I sink, with shame oppressed. 




And the dark eye of my brother 


SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO 


Is an arrow to my breast." 




Where summer leaves were sighing, 


Seek by the silvery Darro, 


Thus sang the Zegri maid, 


Where jasmine flowers have blown ; 


While the crimson day was dying 


There hath she left no footsteps ? 


In the whispery olive shade. 


— Weep, weep ! the maid is gone ! 


" And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 


Seek where Our Lady's image 


This woe in secret borne. 


Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep : 


This flower of young life blasted, 


Hear ye not there her vespers ? 


Should I win back aught but scorn ? 


— Weep for the parted, weep ! 


By aught but daily dying 




Would my lone truth be repaid ? " 


Seek in the porch where vine leaves 


Where the olive leaves were sighing, 


O'ershade her father's head : 


Thus sang the Zegri maid. 


Are his gray hairs left lonely ? 




— Weep ! her bright sotxl is fled 


TTTR RIO VERDE SONG. 




[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in 


SPANISH EVENING HYMN. 


the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent 




combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The 


Ave ! now let prayer and music 


Ballad referring to this stream in Percy's Reliqxies will be re- 


Meet in love on earth and sea ! 


Btmbered by many readers. 


Now, sweet Mother ! may the weary 


' Gentle river, gentle river I 


Turn from this cold world to thee ! 


L« I thy Btreams are stained with gore."] 




Flow, Rio Verde ! 


From the wide and restless waters 


In melody flow ; 


Hear the sailor's hymn arise ? 


Win her that weepeth 


From his watchfire 'midst the mountains, 


To slumber from woe ; 


Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 


Bid thy waves' music 




Roll through her dreams — 


Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, 


Grief ever loveth 


If o'erburdened souls there be. 


The kind voice of streams. 


Dark and silent in their anguish, 




Aid those captives ! set them free ! 


Bear her lone spirit 




Afar on the sound 


Touch them, every fount unsealing 


Back to her childhood. 


Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 


Her life's fairy ground ; 


. Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, 


Pass like the whisper 


Aid ! O, aid to pray and weep ! 


Of love that is gone — 




Flow, Rio Verde ! 




Softly flow on ! 






BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'Si 


Dark glassy water 


SIDE! 


So crimsoned of yore ! 




Love, death, and sorrow 


Bird that art singing on Ebro's side ! 


Know ikj green shore. 


Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 60j 


Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee ? 


Thy spirit is our banner. 


Doth song a^ail thy full heart to free ? 


Thine eye our beacon sign, 


— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 


Thy name our trumpet, Mina ! 


Teach me the speU of thy melody. 


— The mountain bands are thine 


Bird ! is it blighted affection's pain 




Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy 




strain ? 


MOTHER! 0, SING ME TO REST. 


And is the wound of that arrow stilled 




When thy lone music the leaves hath iilled ? 


A. CANCION. 


— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 


Mother ! 0, sing me to rest 


Teach me the spell of thy melody. 


As in my bright days departei : 




Sing to thy child, the sick hearted, 




Songs for a spirit oppressed. 


MOORISH GATHERING SONG. 


Lay this tired head on thy breast ! 


ZoRZICO.' 


Flowers from the night dew are closing. 




Pilgrims and mourners reposing : 


Chains on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 


Mother ! 0, sing me to rest ! 


Come to the hills ! fresh breezes are there. 




Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 


Take back thy bird to its nest ! 


Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. 


Weary is young life when blighted, 


' 


Heavy this love unrequited : 


Come from the Darro ! — changed is its tone ; 


— Mother, 0, sing me to rest ! 


Come where the streams no bondage have known; 




Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, 




Singing of freedom from steep to steep. 






THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 


Come from Alhambra ! — garden and grove 


RONCESVALLES. 


Now may not shelter beauty or love. 




Blood on the waters ! death 'midst the flowers . 


There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 


— Only the spert and the rock are ours. 


There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 




There are murmurs — but not of the torrent^ 


, 


Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar. 




'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, 


THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 


Of armings and hurried farwells ; 




Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards I 


We heard thy name, Mina ! 


Or start from your old battle dells. 


Far through our hills it rang ; 




A sound more strong than tempests, 


There are streams of unconquered Asturias 


More keen than armor's clang. 


That have rolled with your fathers' free blood 




0, leave on the graves of the mighty 


The peasant left his vintage, 


Proud marks where thy children have stood ' 


The shepherd grasped the spear — 




We heard thy name, Mina ! 




— The mountain bands are here. 






SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 


As eagles to the dayspring, 




As torrents to the sea, 


AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 


From every dark sierra 




So rushed our hearts to thee. 


[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band Ok 




shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in theil 




wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the 


1 The Zorzico i3 an extremely wild and singularly an- 


sight of a tomb which bears this inscription — " Et in Arto- 


tique Moiriah melody. 

76 


dia ego,"\ 



602 



LYRICS. 



They have wandered in their glee 
With the butterfly and bee ; 
They have climbed o'er heathery swells, 
They have wound through forest dells ; 
Mountain moss hath felt their tread, 
Woodland streams their way have led ; 
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, 
^nto them have yielded up 
Fragrant bell and starry cup : 
Chaplets are on every brow — 
What hath staid the wanderers now ? 
Lo ! a gray and rustic tomb, 
Bowered amidst the rich wood gloom ; 
Whence these words their stricken spirits 
melt, 

— "I too, shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

There is many a summer sound 

That pale sepulchre around ; 

Through the shade young birds are glancing. 

Insect wings in sun streaks dancing ; 

Glimpses of blue festal skies 

Pouring in when soft winds rise ; 

Violets o'er the turf below 

Shedding out their warmest glow ; 

Yet a spirit not its own 

O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 

Something of an undernote 

Through its music seems to float. 

Something of a stillness gray 

Creeps across the laughing day : 

Something dimly from those old words felt, 

— "I too, shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 

Was some gentle kindred maid 
In that grave with dirges laid ? 
Some fair creature, with the tone 
Of whose voice a joy is gone. 
Leaving melody and mirth 
Poorer on this altered earth ? 
Is it thus, that so they stand. 
Dropping flowers from every hand — 
Flowers, and lyres, and gathered store 
Oj ted wild fruit prized no more ? 

— No ! from that bright band of morn 
Not one link hath yet been torn : 

'Tis the shadow of the tomb 

Falling o'er the summer bloom — 

D'er the flush of love and life 

Passing with a sudden strife ; 

Tis the low prophetic breath 

Murmuring from that house of death. 

Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, 

— •• I too, shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 



THE WANDERING WIND. 

The Wind, the wandering Wind 

Of the golden summer eves — 
Whence is the thrilling magic 

Of its tones among the leaves ? 
O, is it from the waters. 

Or from the long tall grass ? 
Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Through which its breathings pas« * 

Or is it from the voices 

Of all in one combined. 
That it -wins the tone of mastery ? 

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 
No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 

That with it come and go, 
They are not from the osiers. 

Nor the fir trees whispering low • 

They are not of the waters. 

Nor of the caverned hill ; 
'Tis the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill. 
They touch the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined. 
And we start, and weep, and tremble 

To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 



YE ARE NOT MISSED, JPAIR FLOWERS ! 

Ye are not missed, fair flowers, that late were 
spreading 
The summer's glow by fount and breezy 
grot ; 
There falls the dew, its fairy favors shedding — 
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss 
you not. 

Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, 
O lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; 

The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 
daughter. 
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone. 

And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath 
kissed. 
Cradled ye were, fair flowers ! 'midst all thiagi 
loving, 
A joy to all — yet, yet ye are rot missed t 



SONGS FOR SUMMEL HOuJbto. 



60* 



ie, that were boni to lend the sunbeam glad- 
ness, 
And the winds fragrance, wandering where 
thej' list, 
'), it were breathing words too deep in sadness, 
To say earth's human flowers not more are 
missed. 



THE WILLOW SONG. 

Willow ! in thy breezy moan 
I can hear a deeper tone ; 
Through thy leaves come whispering low, 
Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. 
Willow, sighing willow ! 

Many a mournful tale of old 
Heartsick love to thee hath told. 
Gathering from thy golden bough 
Leaves to cool his burning brow. 
Willow ! sighing willow ! 

Many a swan-like song to thee 
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ! 
Many a lute its last lament 
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. 
Willow ! sighing willow ! 

Therefore, wave and murmur on ! 
Sigh for sweet affections gone. 
And for tuneful voices fled. 
And for love, whose heart hath bled. 
Ever, willow ! willow ! 



LEAVE ME NOT YET. 

fc>^ATE me not yet ! through rosy skies from far, 
But now the song birds to their nests return ; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 
Leave me not yet ! 

Not yet ! O, haik ! low tones from hidden 
streams. 
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise ; 
Their voices mingle not with dayUght dreams. 
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 
Leave me not yet ! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love ! 
By day shut up in their own still recess ; 



They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, 
Then to breathe out their soul of tendemeat 
Leave me not yet ! 



THE ORANGE BOUGH. 

O, BRING me one sweet orange bough. 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 
One bough, with pearly blossoms dressed. 
And bind it, mother ! on my breast ! 

Go, seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odors I must breathe no more r 
The grove where every scented tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 

O, Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer. 
And wild farewell, are lingering there : 
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone 
My faint heart, even in death, would own 

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 
Life's parting sweetness round my head ; 
And bind it, mother ! on my breast 
When I am laid in lonely rest. 



THE STREAM SET FREE. 

Flow on, rejoice, make music. 
Bright living stream set free ! 

The troubled haunts of care and strife 
Were not for thee ! 

The woodland is thj' country, 

Thou'rt all its own again ; 
The wild birds are thy kindred race, 

That fear no chain. 

Flow on, rejoice, make music 
Unto the gKstening leaves ! 

Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 
And golden eves ! > 

Once more the holy starlight 
Sleeps calm upon thy breast. 

Whose brightness bears no token mort 
Of man's unrest. 

Flow, and let free-born music 
Flow with thy wavy line. 



804 



LYRICS. 



While the stockdove's lingering, loving voice 
Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee. 

Strings of the forest lyre, 
All filled with answering spirit sounds, 

In joy respire. 

Yet, 'midst thy song's glad changes,. 

O, keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 

One sound, of all the deepest, 

To bring, like healing dew, 
A sense that nature ne'er forsakes, 

The meek and true. 
-1* 
Then, then, rejoice, make music. 

Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 
The shadows of aU glorious flowers 

Be set in thee ! 



THE SUMMER'S CALL.' 

Come away ! The sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now, 

In their play. 
Flowers are shedding bea^ity's glow — 

Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream, 

Come away ! 

All the air is filled with sound. 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away ! 

1 • The Summer's Call." — This facult}' for realizing im- 
•ges of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward cir- 
euFQstanc^es of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus 
gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the " Royal 
Poet " of his Sketch Book : " Some minds corrode and 
gZ3W inactive under the loss of personal liberty; others 
grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet 
to become ten ler and imaginative in the loneliness of con- 
finement He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, 
Ind, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim cooped into a cage, 
How Bhe doth chant her wonted tale 

in that her lonely hermitage ? 



Where the bee's deep music swells 

From the trembling f(»xglove bells. 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloo» 
Darken each thick bed of bloom, 

Come away ! 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love hue glows ; 
Now the glowworm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray, 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 

Come away ! 
Where the fairy cup moss lies, 
With the wildwood strawberries, 

Come away ! 

Now each tree, by summer crownei 
Sheds its own rich twilight round } 
Glancing there from sun to shade. 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made - 

Come away ! 
Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
Glisten in their honey time, 

Come away — away ! 



O, J5KYLARK, FOR THY WING 

O, Skylark, for thy wing ! 

Thou bird of joy and light, 
That I might soar and sing 

At heaven's empyreal height ! 

Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.' 

BOQEB L'ESTKAX X 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, **■» 
is irrepressible, unconfinabl? ; and that, when the real \ jt 
is shut out, it can create a world for itself, an'' '"'th a n >cn 
mantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and fLrms. 
and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in hia 
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider The Kxng't 
Quair, composed by James of Scotland during his captivity 
at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of 
the soul from the restraint and gloom of the pr ison housn " 



SONGS OF 


CAPTIVITY. 605 


With the heathery hills beneath me, 




Whence the streams in glory spring, 


THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 


And the pearly clouds to wreathe me. 




Skylark ! on thy wing ! 


In the proud old fanes of England 




My warrior fathers lie. 


Free, free, from earth-born fear, 


Banners hang drooping o'er their dust 


I would range the blessfed skies. 


With gorgeous blazonry. 


Through the blue, divinely clear. 


But thou, but thou, my brother ! 


"Where the low mists cannot rise ! 


O'er thee dark billows SAveep — 


And a thousand joyous measures 


The best and bravest heart of all 


From my chainless heart should spring, 


Is shrouded by the deep. 


Like the bright rain's vernal treasures. 




As I wandered on thy wing. 


In the old high wars of England 




My noble fathers bled ; 


But 0, the silver cords 


For her lion kings of lance and spear, 


That around the heart are spun. 


They went down to the dead. 


From gentle tones and words. 


But thou, but thou, my brother ! 


And kind eyes that make our sun ! 


Thy lifedrops flowed fo^^ me — 


To some low, sweet nest returning. 


Would I were with thee in thy rest. 


How soon my love would bring 


Young sleeper of the sea ! 


There, there the dews of morning, 




Skylark ! on thy wing ! 


In a sheltered home of England 




Our sister dwells alone. 




With quick heart listening for the soand 


— 


Of footsteps that are gone. 




She little dreams, my brother ! 




Of the wild fate we have found ; 


SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 


I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave. 




Thou, by the dark seas bound 


INTRODUCTION. 




Onb hour for distant homes to weep 




'Midst Afric's burning sands. 




One silent sunset hour was given 




To the slaves of many lands. 


THE ALPINE HORN. 


They sat beneath a lonely palm. 


The Alpine horn ! the Alpine horn ! 


In the gardens of their lord ; 


0, through my native sky 


And, mingling with the fountain's tune. 


Might I but hear its deep notes borne 


Their songs of exile poured. 


Once more — but once — and die ! 


And strangely, sadly did those lays 


Yet no ! 'Midst breezy hills thy breath, 


Of Alp and ocean sound, 


So full of hope and morn, 


"With Afric's wild, red skies above, 


Would win me from the bed of death— 


And solemn wastes around. 


joyous Alpine horn ! 


Broken with tears were oft their tones, 


But here the echo of that blast. 


And most when most they tried 


To many a battle known, 


To breathe of hope and liberty, 


Seems mournfully to wander past, 


From hearts that inly died. 


A wild, shrill, wailing tone ! 


So met the sons of many lands. 


Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 


Parted by mount and main ; 


Thy proud notes were not bom ; 


So did they sing in brotherhood, 


The dream but deepens my despair - 


Made kindred by the chain. 


Be hushed, thou Alpine horn ! 



SOtf LYRICS. 


YE VOICES! 


FAR O'ER THE SEA. 


YE voices round my own hearth singing, 


Where are the vintage songs 


As the winds of May to memory sweet ! 


Wandering in glee ? 


Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing. 


Where dance the peasant bands 


Would those vernal tones the wanderer 


Joyous and free ? 


greet 


Under a kind blue sky, 


Once again ? 


Where doth my birthplace lie ? 




— Far o'er the sea ! 


Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 




Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 


Where floats the myrtle scent 


O'er the green turf of the gentle hearted 


O'er vale and lea, 


Summer's hand the rose leaves may have 


When evening calls the dove 


shed 


Homewards to flee ? 


Oft again ! 


Where doth the orange gleam 




Soft on my native stream ? 


Or if still around my heart ye linger, 


— Far o'er the sea ! 


Yet, sweet voices ! there must change have 




come : 


Where are sweet eyes of lovo 


Tears have quelled the free soul of the singer. 


Watching for me ? 


Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home 


Where o'er the cabin roof 


Ne'er again ! 


Waves the green tree ? 




Where speaks the vesper ctzune 




Still of a holy time ? 




— Far o'er the sea ! 


I DKEAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 


Dance on, ye vintage bands ! 




Fearless and free ; 


I DREAM of all things free ! 


Still fresh and greenly wave, 


Of a gallant, gallant bark 


My father's tree ! 


That sweeps through storm and sea. 


StUl smUe, ye kind, blue skies ! 


Like an arrow to its mark ! 


Though your son pines and dies 


Of a stag that o'er the hills 


Far o'er the sea ! 


Goes bounding in his glee ; 




Of a thousand flashing rills — 




Of all things glad and free. 






THE INVOCATION. 


I dream of some proud bird, 


0, ART thou still on earth, my love, 


A bright-eyed mountain king ! 


My only love ? 


In my visions I have heard 


Or smiling in a brighter home, 


The rushing of his wing. 


Far, far above ? 


I follow some wild river, 




On whose breast jio sail may be ; 


0, is thy sweet voice fled, my love, 


Dark woods around it shiver — 


I dream of all things free ! 


Thy light step gone ? 
And art thou not, in earth or heaven. 




Still, still my own ? 


Cf a happy forest child, 




With the fawns and flowers at play ; 


I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 


Of an Indian 'midst the wild, 


In midnight dreams ! 


With the stars to guide his way ; 


But cold, and clear, and spirit-like 


Of a chief his warriors leading. 


Thy soft eye seems. 


Of an archer's greenwood tree — 




My heart in chains is bleeding, 


Peace in thy saddest hour, my love ! 


And I dream of all things free ! 


Dwelt on thy brow ; 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



<01 



But something mournfully divine 
There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip, 

And pale thy cheek : 
O, art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's ? 

Speak to me, speak ! 



THE SONG OF HOPE. 

Droop not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain ; 
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter 

■ night's chain ; 
A flag is unfurled, a bright star of the sea, 
A ransom approaches — we yet shall be free ! 

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois 

leaps, 
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps ; 
Where the snows glisten, the mountain rUls 

foam. 
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam. 

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks 

are mei. 
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet ! 
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea — 
Droop not, my brothers ! we yet shall be free ? 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 
THE CALL TO BATTLE. 

" Ah I then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The lifs from out young hearts, and choking sighs, 
Which ne'er miglit be repeated." — Bykon. 

The vesper bell, from church and tower, 

Had sent its djing sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve, 

Were met their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive wood, with a 

sudden trumpet's power — 
" We rise on all our hills ! Come forth ! 'tis thy 

country's gathering hour : 
There's a gleam of spears by every stream in 

each old battle dell. 
Come forth, young Juan ! Bid thy home a brief 

ajid proud fnreweU ! " 



Then the father gave his son the sword 
Which a hundred fights had seen - 

" Away ! and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been ! 

" Haste, haste ! The hunters of the foe are nj 

and who shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indiy 

nant land ? 
Our chase shall sound through each defilt 

where swept the clarion's blast, 
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy 

ages past." 

Then the mother kissed her son with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell : 
"I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er. 

Yet I stay thee not. Farewell ' " 

" One moment ! but one moment give to part- 
ing thought or word ! 

It is no time for woman's tears when manhood'.t 
heart is stirred. 

Bear but the memory of my love about thee is 
the fight. 

To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of 
keener might. 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard. 
Though deep, yet brief and low : 

" In the vigil, in the conflict, love 1 
My prayer shall with thee go ! " 

" Come forth ! come as the torrent comes whei> 

the winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and 

silence nursed. 
The night is passed, the silence o'er — on al' 

our hills we rise : 
We wait thee, j'outh ! sleep, dream no more 1 

the voice of battle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darkened home. 
When the brave had left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifico 
Was with them in that hour 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character ir 
one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott 
Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in ea> 



808 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS, 



L^ 



fy childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that 
.and, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and 
pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times 
break forth into the following song. The original has been 
let to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.] 

" Kennst du das Lnnd wo die Citronen bluhn ? " 

Kno-w'st thou the land where bloom the citron 

bowers, 
Where the gold orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, the n>yrtle flowers, 
And through a stiU blue heaven the sweet 

winds rove. 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there, with thee, 
O friend ! O loved one ! fain my steps would flee. 

Know'st thou the dwelling ? There the pillars 

rise, 
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow ; 
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 
To say — " Poor child ! what thus hath wrought 

thee woe ? " 
Know'st thou it well ? 

There, there, with thee, 
my proteccer ! homewards might I flee ! 

Elnow'st thou the mountain ? High its bridge 

is hung. 
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud 

his way ; 
.There lurk the dragon race deep caves among, 
D'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent 

spray. 
Know'st tlou it well ? 

With thee, with thee, 
There lies my path, O father ! let us flee ! 



THE SISTERS.' 

A BALLAD. 

'•I GO, sveet sister ' yet my heart would linger 
witij thee fain, 

knd unto every parting gift some deep remem- 
brance chain : 

Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which 
once I loved to wear, 

Aj>d with it bind for festal scenes the dark 
■»vaves of thy hair ! 



1 This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recita- 
Bve, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two 
irrar«ful and highly-accomplished sisters. 



Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven 

tresses well, 
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone 

convent cell." 

" O, speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part 

from kindred love ? 
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my 

steps no more shall move ! 
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 

throng ? 
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every 

tone of song. 
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or le- 

me proudly twine 
Its wreath once more around that brow, that 

queenly brow, of thine." 

" O, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 

shelter to detain ? 
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life 

again ? 
Sweet sister ! take the golden cross that I hare 

worn so long, 
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret 

woe and wrong. 
It could not still my beating heart ! but may it 

be a sign 
Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when 

meekly pressed to thine." 

" Take back, take back tlie cross of gold, oui 

mother's gift to thee — 
It would but of this parting hour a bitter token 

be; 
With funeral splendor to mine eye, it would but 

sadly shine. 
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer 

mine. 

sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried grief 

oppressed. 
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on 
my faithful breast ? " 

•' Urge me no more ! A blight hath fallen upon 
my summer years ! 

1 should but darken thy young life with fruitless 

pangs and fears. 
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it 

for my sake, 
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone 

, of memory wake ! 
Sing . to those chords by starhght's gleam our 

own sweet vesper nymn, 
And think that I too chant it then, far in my 

cloister dim." 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



60* 



•* Yes ! I will take the silvery lute — and I will 

sing to thee 
A song we heard in childhood's days, even from 

our father's knee. 

sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 

things ? 
Do they not linger, as in love, on the familiar 

strings ? 
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur 

in the strain ? 
Kind sister ! gentlest Leonor ! say, shall it plead 

in vain ? " 

SONG. 

" Leave us laot, leave us not ! 

Say not adieu ! 
Have we not been to thee 

Tender and true ? 

^* Take not thy sunny smile 

Far from our hearth ! 
"With that sweet light will fade 

Summer and mirth. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Can thy heart roam ? 
Wilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home ? 

" Too sad our love would be 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not ! 

Thou art our own ! " 

•• O sister ! hush that thrilling lute ! — 0, cease 
that haunting lay ! 

Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes — yet, 
yet I cannot stay : 

Por weary, weary is ray heart ! I hear a whis- 
pered call 

In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 
blossom fall. 

1 cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines 

to dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more ! O, 
calm thee ! — Fare thee well ! " 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the young- 
er Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock 
above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a 
desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems pene- 
trated with the feeling of utter abandonment.] 

77 



Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea ! 

My dirge is in thy moan ; 
My spirit finds response in thee 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone I " 

Yet send me back one other word, 
Ye tones that never cease ! 

0, let your secret caves be stirred. 

And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace f 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh, 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the wave reply ? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world ! from thee 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And 3'et I loved that earth so well, 

With all its lovely things ! 
Was it for this the death wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quenched its living strings ' 

Let them lie silent at my feet ! 

Since, broken even ao they. 
The heart whose music made them sweet 
Hath poured on desert sands its wealth awav 

Yet glory's light hath touched my nam*>- 

The laurel wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame, 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ' 

Give to that crown, that burning crown. 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown. 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. ' 

Thou sea bird on the billow's crest ! 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest. 
And I, th' unsought, unwatched-for — I too comel 

1, with this winged nature fraught. 
These visions wildly free. 

This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
Alone I come — O, give me peace, dark sea ; 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her graver 
O, where the wild flowers wave 
In the free air I 



«ld MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Where shower and singing bird 


Rose ! too much arrayed 


'Midst the young leaves aire heard — 


For triumphal hours. 


There — lay her there ! 


Look'st thou through the shade 




Of these mortal bowers, 


Harsh was the world to her — 


Not to disturb my soul, thou crowned on« t «i 


Now may sleep minister 


flowers ! 


Balm for each ill : 




Low on sweet nature's breast 


As an eagle soaring 


Let the meek heart find rest, 


Through a sunny sky, 


Deep, deep, and stiU ! 


AS a clarion pouring 




Notes of victory. 


Murmur, glad waters ! by ; 


So dost thou kindle thoughts, for eart (y Ufii 


Faint gales ! with happy sigh, 


too high. 


Come wandering o'er 




That green and mossy bed, 


Thoughts of rapture, flushing 


Where, on a gentle head. 


Youthful poet's cheek ; 


Storms beat no more ! 


Thoughts of glory, rushing 




Forth in song to break. 


What though for her in vain 


But finding the springtide of rapid jong too 


Falls now the bright spring rain, 


weak. 


Plays the soft wind ? 




Yet still, from where she Lies, 


Yet, festal rose ! 


Should bless6d breathings rise, 


I have seen thee lymg 


Gracious and kind. 


In thy bright repose 




Pillowed with the dyin^, 


Therefore let song and dew 


Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood 


Thence in the heart renew 


was flying. 


Life's vernal glow ! 




And o'er that holy earth. 


Summer, hope, and love 


Scents of the violet's birth 


O'er that bed of pain 


Still come and go ! 


Met in thee, yet wove 




Too, too frail a chain 


0, then, where wild flowers wave 


In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 


Make ye her mossy grave. 




In the free air ! 


Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower ' 


Where shower and singing bird 


0, within the spells 


'Midst the young leaves are heard — 


Of thy beauty's power 


There — lay her there ! 


Something dimly dwells, 




At variance with a world of sorrows anu lore- 




wells. 


A SONG OF THE ROSE. 


All the soul forth flowing 




In that rich perfume. 


" Coal fior diverrai che non soggiace 


All the proud life glowing 


All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio schemo 


In that radiant bloom — 


D' una stagion volubile e fugace ; 




E a piu fido Cultor posto in govemo, 


Have they no place but here, beneath the o'er- 


Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace. 


shadowing tomb ? 


Ad etema Bellezza odore etemo."— Mbtastasio. 


Rose ! what dost thou here ? 


Crown'st thou but the daughters 


Bridal, royal rose ! 


Of our tearful race ? 


How, 'midst grief and fear. 


Heaven's own pures*. waters 


Canst thou thus disclose 


Well might wear the trace 


rhat fervid hue of love, which to thy heart leaf 


Of thy consummate form, melting to softw 


glows ? 


grace. 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



61. 



Will that clime infold thee 

With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and dpathless there ? 
In spjit lustre clothed, transcendently more fair ! 

tan ! my fancy sees thee 

In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes. 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal 



NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 

Children of night ! unfolding meekly, slowly, 
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most 

holy, 
4nd glowworm light is in the forest bowers ; 

To solemn things and deep, 

To spirit-haunted sleep. 

To thoughts, all purified 

From earth, ye seem allied ; 
O dedicated flowers ! 

5f e, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 

— So doth love's dreaming heart 
Dwell from the throng apart. 
And but to shades disclose 

The inmost thought, which glows 
With its pure life intwined. 

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill. 
But send forth odors with the faint, soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 

— So doth lone prayer arise. 
Mingling with secret sighs, 
When grief unfolds, like you, 
Her breast, for heavenly dew 

In silent hours to fill. 



rHE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT 
FLOWERS. 

•• Call back your odors, lovely flowers ! 
From the night winds call them back ; 



And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track ! 

" The lark lies couched in her grassy nest, 

And the honey bee is gone. 
And all bright things are away to rest — 

Why watch ye here alone ? 

" Is not your world a mournful one. 
When your sisters close their eyes, 

And 3'our soft breath meets not a lingering tonl 
Of song in the starry skies ? 

" Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth 
When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

" Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes oui 

On the sunny turf to play. 
And the woodland chUd with a fairy shout 

Goes dancing on its way ! " 

" Nay ! let our shadowy beauty blooro 

When the stars give quiet light, 
And let us off"er our faint perfume 

On the silent shrine of night. 

" Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 
To the breeze, when no step is nigh : 

O, thus forever the earth should send 
Her grateful breath on high ! 

" And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers^ 

Of hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkesj 
hours. 

Looking alone to heaven ! " 



ECHO SONG. 

In thy cavern hall. 

Echo ! art thou sleeping ? 
By the fountain's fall 

Dreamy silence keeping ? 
Yet one soft note, borne 
From the shepherd's horn. 
Wakes thee, Echo ! into music leaping ? 
— Strange, sweet Echo ! into music leaping. 

Then the woods rejoice, 

Then glad sounds are swelling 



612 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


From each sister voice 


With a dull, deep roUing sound. 


Round thy rocky dwelling ; 


And the dark pines mourned around 


And their sweetness fills 


O'er the soldier's burial rite. 


All the hollow hills 




With a thousand notes, of one life telling ! 




— Spftly-mingled notes, of one hfe teUing. 






THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. 


Eco ! in my heart 




Thus deep thoughts are lying, 


" Adieu, adieu 1 thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 


Silent and apart, 


Up the hillside ; and now 'tis buried deep 


Buried, yet undying ; 


In the next valley glades." KxATB. 


Till some gentle tone 


" Higher still and higher 


Wakening haply one, 


From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 


Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying ! 


The blue deep thou wingest. 


—Strange, sweet Echo ! even like thee replying. 


And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." 

Shellbt. 




'Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 




Unto the faint wind sighed melodiously. 




And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 


THE MUFFLED DRUM. 


Sent out through shadowy grass and thick wild 


• 


flowers 


The muffled drum was heard 


Dim alabaster gleams, a lonely swan 


In the Pyrenees by night. 


Warbled his death chant ; and a poet stood 


With a duU, deep rolling sound, 


Listening to that strange music, as it shook 


Which told the hamlets round 


The lilies on the wave, and made the pines 


Of a soldier's burial rite. 


And all the laurels of the haunted shore 




Thrill to its passion. 0, the tones were sweet. 


But it told them not how dear, 


Even painfully — as with the sweetness wrung 


In a home beyond the main, 


From parting love ; and to the poet's thought 


Was the warrior youth laid low that hour 


This was their language : — 


By a mountain stream of Spain. 






" Summer ! I depart — 


The oaks of England waved 


light and laughing summer ! fare thee well : 


O'er the slumbers of his race, 


No song the less through thy rich woods will 


But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 


swell 


Above his last, lone place ; 


For one, one broken heart. 


When the muffled drum was heard 


" And fare ye well, young flowers ! 


In the Pyrenees by night, 


Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odor still. 


With a dull, deep rolling sound, 


And wave in glorj', coloring every riU 


Which called strange echoes round 


Known to my youth's fresh hours. 


To the soldier's burial rite. 






" And ye, bright founts ! that lie 


Brief was the sorrowing there, 


Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep. 


By the stream from battle red, 


My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep- 


And tossing on its wave the plumes 


Sweet waters ! I must die. 


Of many a stately head ; 






" Win ye not send one tone 


But a mother — soon to die, 


Of sorrow through the pines ? — one murmiU 


And a sister — long to weep. 


low? 


Even then were breathing prayers for him 


Shall not the green leaves from your voices knoif 


In that home beyond the deep ; 


That I, your child, am gone ? 


While the muffled drum was heard 


" No ! ever glad and free 


In the Pyrenees by night, 


Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell 



W^aves, joyous waves ! flow on, and fare ye well ! 
Ye will not mourn for me. 

'• But thou, sweet boon ! too late 
Poured on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and 
strong. 

In the dark hour of fate ? 

*' Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love ! farewell." 

bus flowed the death chant on ; while mourn- 

fuUy 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the 

tones 
jiuried in rocks along the Grecian stream — 
Rocks and dim caverns of old prophecy — 
"Woke to respond : and all the air was filled 
'**^ith that one sighing sound — Farewell! fare- 



Filled with that sound ? High in the calm blue 

heaven 
Even then a skylark hung : soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with 

light. 
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quivered with song : such free, triumphant 

song, 
As if tears were not — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below ; and thus that strain 
Spoke to the poet's ear exultingly : — 

•' The summer is come ; she hath said Rejoice ! 
The wildwoods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high : 
Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! 

" There is joy in the mountains ! The bright 

waves leap 
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from 

sleep ; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — 

Let the heavens ring with song ! 

"There is joy in the forests ! The bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 

Sing, sing through the echoing heaven ! 

" Min^o are the wings of the soaring mom, 
Hine are the fresH gales with dayspring bom : 



Only young rapture can mount so high — 

Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! " 

So these two voices met ; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents ; and, amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried, — 
" O, thou art mighty, thou art wonderful. 
Mysterious Nature ! Not in thy free range 
Of woods and wilds alone thou blendest thus 
The dirge note and the song of festival ; 
But in one heart, one changeful human heart — • 
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world — < 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying swan's, 
And the glad skylark's — triumph and despair ! ' 



THE CURFEW SONG OF ENGLAND. 

Haek ! from the dim church tower, 

The deep, slow curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto hall and bower 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night. 
And who might not see his own hearth flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheered the board with the mirth 
ful word. 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 
Until that sullen, boding knell. 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then 

In the wild deer's forest far ! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul. 

With lone aspirings filled. 
Would have Uved o'er some immortal scrolX 

While the sounds of earth were stilled ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low. 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doomed unseen to keep 

By the dying babe her place, 



9l4 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


And to feel its sleeping pulse, and weep, 


Love ! fors-ike me not ! 


Yet not behold its face ! 


Mine were a lone, dark lot, 




Bereft of thee ! 


Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 


They tell me that ray soul can throw 


Darkness in peasant's cot ! 


A glory o'er the earth ; 


While Freedom, under that shadowy pall. 


From thee, from thee, is caught that goldea 


Sat mourning o'er her lot. 


glow ! 


0, the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 


Shed by thy gentle eyes, 


Flor blood hath flowed like rain, 


It gives to flower and skies 


Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries 


A bright, new birth ! 


Of England's homes again. 






" Thence gleams the path of morning 


Heap the yule faggots high 


Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 


Till the red light fills the room ! 


Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning 


It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 


With lustre not its own ! 


Grows thick with evening gloom. 


Thence every wood recess 


Gather ye round the holy hearth, 


Is filled with loveliness, 


And by its gladdening blaze, 


Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known. 


Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth. 




With a thought of the olden days ! 


" I see all beauty by the ray 




That streameth from thy smile ; 




0, bear it, bear it not away ! 




Can that sweet light beguile ? 




Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, 


GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 


To linger long by earthly streams ; 


" That voice remeasures 


I clasp it with th' alloy 


Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 


Of fear 'midst quivering joy. 


The things of nature utter ; birds or trees, 

Or where the tall grass mid the heatli plant waves, 


Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 


Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze." — Colebidob. 


Leave me not. Love ! to mine own beating 




heart ! 


I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 




A song of many tones — though one full soul 


" The music from my lyre 


Breathed through them all imploringly, and 


With thy swift step would flee ; 


made 


The world's cold breath would quench the starry 


All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves 


fire 


And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill 


In my deep soul — a temple filled with thee 


As with the consciousness of human prayer. 


Sealed would the fountains lie, 


— At times the passion-kindled melody 


The waves of harmony. 


Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart 


Which thou alone canst free ! 


Over the wild sea wave ; at times the strain 




Flowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 


" Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken. 


Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 


Whence the oracle hath fled ; 


And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 


Like a harp which none might waken 


A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 


But a mighty master dead ; 


Of Tasso's holy lyre. Yet still the tones 


Like the vase of a perfume scattered, 


Were of a suppliant — " Leave me not ! " was 


Such would my spirit be — 


still 


So mute, so void, so shattered. 


The burden of their music ; and I knew 


Bereft of thee ! 


The lay which Genius, in its loneliness. 




tts own still world, amidst th' o'erpeopled world, 


" Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth 


Hath ever breathed to Love. 


Yield not for thee a home. 




If the bright summer land of thy pure birth 


" They crown me with the glistening crown, 


Send thee a silvery voice that whispers • Com* 


Borne from a deathless tree ; 


Then, with the glory from the rose. 


I hear the pealing music of renown — 


With the sparkle from the stream, 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 611 


With tlie light thy rainbow presence throws 


Can all which crowds on earth's lust hour 


Over the poet's dream ; 


No fuller language find ? 


With all th' Elysian hues 




Thy pathway that suffuse, 


Away ! and hush the feeble song. 


With joy, with music, from the fading grove, 


And let the chord be stiUed ! 


Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet 


Far in another land, ere long. 


Love ! " 


My dream shall be fulfilled. 


mijSic at a death bed. 






MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 


" Musit ? why thy power employ 




Only for the sons of joy ? 


[" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin — a plain, 


Only for the smiling guests 
At natal or at nuptial feasts ? 


quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide cornfield 


Eather thy lenient numbers pour 


on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glo- 


On those whom secret griefg devour ; 


rious career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age. 


And with some softly-whispered air 


at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving 


Smooth the brow of dumb despair I " 


in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle — his fool 


Warton, from Edeipidbs. 


in the iron stirrup— his fingers reined the young war horse 


Brino music ! stir the brooding air 


to the last." — JVotes and Rejlectioiis during a Ramble inti 
Oermany.] 


With an ethereal breath ! 


Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear 


Thou didst fall in the field with thy sUver hair. 


Up from the couch of death ! 


And a banner in thy hand ; 




Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there. 


A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 


By a proudly mournful band. 


Such as the southern breeze 




Might waft, at golden fall of day, 


In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast. 


O'er blue, transparent seas ! 


Thy long bright years had sped ; 




And a warrior's bier was thine at last. 


0, no ! not such ! That lingering spell 


When the snows had crowned thy head. 


Would lure me back to life. 




When my weaned heart hath said farewell. 


Many had fallen by thy side, old chie'" ' 


And passed the gates of strife. 


Brothers and friends, perchance ; 




But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 


Let not a sigh of human love 


And light was in thy glance. 


Blend with the song its tone ! 




Let no disturbing echo move 


The soldier's heart at thy step leaped hign, 


One that must die alone ! 


And thy voice the war horse knew ; 




And the first to arm when the foe was ni"h. 


But pour a solemn-breathing strain 


Wert thou, the bold and true. 


Filled with the soul of prayer ! 




Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain. 


Now mayst thou slumber — thy work is done — 


And trembling hope be there. 


Thou of the well-worn sword ! 




From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt g(ue 


Daaper, yet deeper ! In my thought 


But not to the festal board. 


Lies BVjre prevailing sound. 




A harmony intensely fraught 


The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around 


With pleading more profound. 


Where fiery blood hath flowed . 




lover of battle and trumpet sound ! 


A passion unto music given. 


Thou art couched in a still abode 1 


A sweet, yet piercing cry ; 




A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven, 


A quiet home from the noonday's glares 


A bright faith's victory ! 


And the breath of the wintry blast — 




Didst thou toil through the days of thy silveij 


Deeper ! 0, may no richer power 


hair 


Be in those notes enshrined ? 


To win thee but this at last ? 



616 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



THE FALLEN LIME TREE. 

O JOT of the peasant ! O stately lime ! 
Thou art faUen in thy golden honey time ' 
Thou whose wavy shadows, 

Long and long ago, 
Screened our gray forefathers 
From the noontide's glow ; 
Thou, beneath whose branches. 

Touched with moonlight gleams, 
Lay our early poets 
Rapt in fairy dreams. 
O tree of our fathers ! O hallowed tree ! 
A glory is gone from our home with thee. 

Where shall now the weary 

Rest through summer eves ? 
Or the bee find honey 

As on thy sweet leaves ? 
Where shall now the ringdove 

Build again her nest ? 
She so long the inmate 
Of thy fragrant breast ! 
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee 
Par more than the ringdove, far more than the 
bee ! 

These may yet find coverts 

Leafy and profound. 
Full of dewy dimness. 

Odor, and soft sound ; 
But the gentle memories 

Chnging aU to thee. 
When shall they be gathered 

Round another tree ? 
O pride of our fathers ! O hallowed tree ! 
rhe crown of he hamlet is fallen in thee ! 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

O, why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 
AU the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers 
Thy place wUl not be. 

As 'inidst the waving 
Of wild rose and tree. 



How shouldst thou battle 
With storm and with spray i 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
Where bj' the south wind 

Vine leaves are fanned ? 
'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

" Chide not my lingering 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark — 
A heart that hath cherished 

Through winter's long day i 
So I turn from the greenwood, 

Away, away ! 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLO-vVERS. 

"I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children ol 
forth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no mor« 
— whether they have no likeness, no archetype, in the world in 
which my future home is to be cast— or whether they have theii 
images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightfu 
mould." — Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill Health. 

Bear them not from grassy dells 
Where wild bees have honey cells ; 
Not from where sweet water sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds ; 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are. 
And the glowworm's emerald stai, 
And the bird whose song is free, 
And the many- whispering tree : 
O, too deep a love, and vain, 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes 

Closing fast on summer skies ! 

Woo thou not the spirit back 

From its lone and viewless track, 

With the bright things which have birtn 

Wide o'er all the colored earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 6IS 


From the lily's pearl cup shed, 


With thee, amidst exulting strains, 


Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 


Shadowed the victor's tent. 


Dreams of youth — of spring time's eves — 


Though, shining there in deathless green, 


Music — beauty — all she leaves ! 


Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 




Better thou lov'st the silent scene 


Hush ! 'tis thou thalt dreaming art, 


Around the victor's grave — 


Calicsr is her gentle heart. 


Urn and sculpture half divine 


Y?* o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 


Yield their place to thine. 


Leaf and flower, hath gushed her love ; 




But that passion, deep and true. 


The cold halls of the regal dead, 


Knows not of a last adieu. 


Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell. 




Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 


Types of lovelier forms than these 


Ivy ! they know thee well ! 


In their fragile mould she sees ; 


And far above the festal vine 


Shadows of yet richer things. 


Thou wav'st where once proud banners hnng 


Bom beside immortal springs. 


Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine — 


Into fuller glory wrought. 


The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 


Kindled by surpassing thought ! 


Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 




Ivy ! all are thine ! 


Therefore in the lily's leaf 




She can read no word of grief; 


High from the fields of air look 'own 


O'er the woodbine she can dwell. 


Those eyries of a vanished race. 


Murmuring not — Farewell ! farewell ! 


Where harp, and battle, and renown 


A.nd her dim, yet speaking eye 


Have passed, and left no trace. 


Greets the violet solemnly. 


But thou art there ! — serenely bright. 




Meeting the mountain storms with bloom. 


Therefore once, and yet again. 


Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 


Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 


Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 


From her chamber take the gloom 


Ivy ! Ivy ! all are thine. 


"With a light and flush of bloom : 


Palace, hearth, and shrine. 


So should one depart, who goes 




Where no death can touch the rose ! 


'Tis stiU the same : our pilgrim tread 




O'er classic plains, through deserts free, 




On the mute path of ages fled, 




Still meets decay and thee. 


THF. rVY SONG.» 


And still let man his fabrics rear, 
August in beauty, stern in power — 


U, HOW could fancy crown with thee, 


Days pass — thou Ivy never sere,* 


In ancient days, the God of Wine, 


And thou shalt have thy dower. 


And bid thee at the banquet be 


All are thine, or must be thine — 


Companion of the Vine ? 


Temple, pillar, shrine I 


Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 




Of revelry hath long been o'er ; 




Whe»' song and beaker once went round, 




Bw. now are known no more ; 

Where long-fallen gods recline. 


THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S. 


There the place is thine. 


[The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, If 




almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, 


The Bomay., on his battle plains, 
Where kings i efore his eagles bent, 


and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thui 
produced is not a little deepened by the character of the 
church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich 




fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monu- 


1 This song, as original/y written, the reader will have 
met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 419.) Be- 


mental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by tht 
spirit qf chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fail* 


ing afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs. Hemans, per- 




haps no apology is requisite for its reinsertion here. 
78 


2 " Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."— Z»eid«« 



618 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


recognize it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old 


Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 


•— a pFace to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound 
•rith the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king ] 


Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 
Silent and dark ! 


" AH the choir 




Sang halleliqah, as the sound of seas." — Miltoit. 


I thought to see thy children 


A.GAIN, 0, send that anthem peal again 


Laugh on me with thine eyes ; 


Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky ! 


But my sorrow's voice is lonely 


Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, 


Where my life's flower lies. 


The banners thrill as if with victory ! 






I shall go to sit beside thee, 


Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have 


Thy kindred's graves among ; 


heard, 


I shall hear the tall grass whisper — 


While armed for fields of chivalrous renown ; 


I shall not hear it long. 


Such the high hearts of kings might weU have 




stirred, 


Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 


While throbbing still beneath the recent crown ! 


Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired h<,i I 




Silent and dark ! 


Those notes once more ! — they bear my soul 




away. 


And I, too, shall find slumber 


They lend the wings of morning to its flight ; 


With my lost one in the earth : 


No earthly passion in th' exulting lay 


Let none light up the ashes 


Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 


Again on our hearth ! 


All is of Heaven ! Yet wherefore to mine eye 


Let the roof go down ! — let silence 


Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source. 


On the home forever fall. 


Even while the waves of that strong harmony 


Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 


Roll with my spirit on their sounding course ? 


His lone mother's call ! 


Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 


Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on» 


Thus by the burst of sorrow's token shower ! 


Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 


— O, is it not, that humbly we may feel 


Silent and dark ! 


Our nature's limit in its proudest hour ? 


• 


KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH 


FAR AWAY. 


MOTHER OVER HER SON. 




[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of 
fee Irish keenes, many of which are distinguished by a 
Inld and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to 


Far away ! — my home is far away, 

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore ; 
In the woods I hear my brothers play, 


Jlose of the national music] 


'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, 




Far away ! 


Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 




Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son ! 


Far away ! — my dreams are far away, 


Silent and dark ! 


When at midnight stars and shadows reign : 




" Gentle child ! " my mother seems to say. 


There is blood upon the threshold 


" FoUow me where home shall smUe agaia. 


Whence thy step went forth at mom 


Far away ! " 


Like a dancer's in its fleetness. 




my bright first born ! 


Far away ! — my hope is far away. 




Where love's voice young gladness may te> 


At the glad sound of that footstep 


store. 


My heart within me smiled ! — 


— thou dove ! now soaring through the day, 


Thou wert brought me back all silent 


Lend me wings to reach that better shore, 


On thy bier, my child ! 


Far away ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. «11 


TTTF, LYRE AND FLOWER. 


THE LONELY BIRD. 


A Lyre its plaintive sweetness poured 


From a ruin thou art singing, 


Forth on the wild wind's track ; 


lonely, lonely bird ! 


The stormy wanderer jarred the chord, 


The soft blue air is ringing, 


But gave no music back. — 


By thy summer music stirred. 


child of song ! 


But all is dark and cold beneath. 


Bear hence to heaven thy fire : 


Where harps no more are heard : 


What hop'st thou from the reckless throng ? 


Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath 


Be not like that lost lyre ! 


lonely, lonely bird ? 


Not like that lyre ! 






Thy songs flow richly swelling 


A Flower its leaves and odors cast 


To a triumph of glad sounds, 


On a swift-rolling wave ; 


As from its cavern dwelling 


Th' unheeding torrent darkly passed, 


A stream in glory bounds ! 


And back no treasure gave. — 


Though the castle echoes catch no tone 


heart of love ! 


Of human step or word. 


Waste not thy precious dower ; 


Though the fires be quenched and the feast- 


Turn to thine only home above ! 


ing done, 


Be not like that lost flower ! 


lonely, lonely bird ! 


Not like that flower ! 






How can that flood of gladness 




Rush through thy fiery lay, 




From the haunted place of sadness. 




From the bosom of decay — 




While the dirge notes in the breeze's vaoaa, 




Through the ivy garlands heard. 


SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 


Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, 




lonely, lonely bird ? 


Sister ! since I met thee last 




O'er thy brow a change hath passed 


There's many a heart, wild singer 1 


In the softness of thine eyes 


Like thy forsaken tower. 


Deep and still a shadow lies ; 


Where joy no more may linger, 


From thy voice there thrills a tone 


Where Love hath left his bower : 


Never to thy childhood known ; 


And there's many a spirit e'en like theOi 


Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 


To mirth as lightly stirred. 


— Gentle sister ! thou hast loved ! 


Though it soar from ruins in its glee. 




lonely, lonely bird ! 


Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 




Hues too bright from troubled thought ; 




Far along the wandering stream 




Thou art followed by a dream ; 


DIRGE AT SEA. 


In the woods and valleys lone 




Music haunts thee, not thine own : 


Sleep ! — we give thee to the ware, 


Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ? 


Red with lifeblood from the brave. 


Sister ! tliou hast loved in vain ' 


Thou shalt find a noble grave. 




Fare thee well ! 


Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 




On my bosom pour that shower ! 


Sleep ! thy billowy field is won s 


Teh. me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 


Proudly may the funeral gun. 


Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 


'Midst the hush at set of sun. 


Wring not forth one burning word, 


Boom thy knell ! 


Let thy heart no more be stirred ! 




Home alone can give thee rest. 


Lonely, lonely is thy bed ; 


— Weep, sweet sister ! on my breast ! 


Never there may flower be shed, 



i — 



120 



MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 



Marble reared, or brother's head 
Bowed to weep. 

Yet thy record on the sea, 
Borne through battle high and free, 
Long the red-cross flag shall be. 
Sleep ! O, sleep ! 



PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING 
STAR. 

O SOFT star of the west, 

Gleaming far ! 
Thou'rt guiding all things home. 

Gentle star ! 
Thou bring' st from rock and wave 

•The sea bird to her nest. 
The hunter from the hUls, 

The fisher back to rest. 
Light of a thousand streams, 

Gleaming far ! 
O soft star of the west ! 

Blessed star ! 

No bowery roof is mine. 

No hearth of love and rest ; 
Yet guide me to my shrine, 

O soft star of the west ! 
There, there my home shall be. 

Heaven's dew shall cool my breast, 
When praj'er and tear gush free, 

O soft star of the west ! 

O soft star of the west, 

Gleaming far ! 
Thou'rt guiding all things home, 

Gentle star ! 
Shine from thy rosy heaven. 

Pour joy on earth and sea ! 
Shine on, though no sweet eyes 

Look forth to watch for me ! 
Light of a thousand streams, 

Gleaming far ! 
O soft star of the west ! 

Blessed star ! 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 

" We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words 
■nd lookB of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short 
moments ; and then days, months, years intervene, and we see 
•nd know nothing of each other."— Washington Ibvino. 



Two barks met on the deep mid sea 
When calms had stilled the tide ; 

A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 

Cloudless and lovely slept ; 
While dancing step and festive strain 

Each deck in triumph swept. 

And hands were linked, and answering ej€t 
With kindly-meaning shone ; 

O, brief and passing sympathies, 
Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose. 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet music rose. 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The parting vessels bore ; 
In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 

To meet — O, nevermore ! 

Never to blend in victory's cheer, 

To aid in hours of woe : 
And thus bright spirits mingle here ; 

Such ties are formed below ! 



COME AWAY. 

Come away ! — the child, where flowera ajcl 
springing 
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope^ 
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing. 
Like the skylark's with its tone of hope : 
Come away ! 

Bounding on» with sunny lands before him 
All the wealth of glowing life outspread 

Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 
By that strain the youth in joy is led : 
Come away ! 

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 
O'er the sweetness of the voice vidthin ; 



Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, 
Urge the hunter stiU to chase, to win : 
Come away ! 

Come away ! — the heart at last forsaken, 

SmUe by smile, hath proved each hope untrue ; 

Yet a breath can still those words awaken. 
Though to other shores far hence they woo : 
Come away ! 

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 
In the low, sweet sounds of early spring. 

Still their music wanders — till the dying 
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 
Come away ! 



SfAJR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL. 

[" Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," as she is called in the Scot- 
tish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lov- 
er and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a 
mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.] 

Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 
Keep back my flitting breath ; 

'Tis early, early to depart. 
Beloved ! — yet this is death ! 

Look on me still — let that kind eye 

Be the last light I see ! 
O, sad it is in spring to die. 

But yet I die for thee ! 

For thee, my own ! — thy stately head 

Was never thus to bow : 
Give tears when with me love hath fled. 

True love, thou know'st it now ! 

O, the free streams looked bright, where'er 

We in our gladness roved ; 
And the blue skies were very fair, 

O friend ! because we loved. 

Farewell ! — I bless thee — live thou on 
When this young heart is low ! 

Surely my blood thy life hath won — 
Clasp me once more — I go ! 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 

A SOUND comes on the rising breeze, 
A sweet and lovely soimd ! 



Piercing the tumult of the seas 
That wildly dash around. 

From land, from sunny land it comea^ 
From hills with murmuring trees. 

From paths by still and happy homes — 
That sweet sound on the breeze. 

Why should its faint and passing sigh 
Thus bid my quick pulse leap ? 

No part in earth's glad melody 
Is mine upon the deep. 

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot 
Whence those rich breathings flow ! 

Kind hearts, although they know me not, 
Like mine there beat and glow. 

And blessing, from the bark that roams 

O'er sohtary seas, 
To those that far in happy homes 

Give sweet sounds to the breeze I 



LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLJS&S 
EYES. 

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 
Truth in their dark transparence lips ; 
Their sweetness gives me back the tears 
And the free trust of early years, 
My gentle child ! 

The spirit of my infant prayer 
Shines in the depths of quiet there , 
And home and love once more are mine, 
Found in that dewy calm divine, 
My gentle child ! 

O, heaven is with thee in thj' dreams, 
Its light by day around thee gleams — 
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies : 
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 
My gentle child ! 



IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER 

'f O, cast thou not 
Affection from thee I In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
Watch — guard it— sufter not a breath to dim 
The bright gem's purity 1 " 



S22 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Ip thou hast crushed a flower, 


So we give thee to the earth, 


The root may not be blighted ; 


And the primrose shall have birth 


If thou hast quenched a lamp, 


O'er thy gentle head ; 


Once more it may be lighted : 


Thou that, like a dewdrop borne 


But on thy harp, or on thy lute, 


On a sudden breeze of mom. 


The string which thou hast broken 


Brightly thus hast fled ! 


Shall never in sweet sound again 




Give to thy touch a token ! 




If thou hast loosed a bird 


' 


Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 






THE BED OF HEATH. 


Still, still he may be won 




From the skies to warble near thee : 


" Soldier, awake ! the night is past ; 


But if upon the troubled sea 


Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast ? 


Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 


Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath ? 


Hope not that wind or wave will bring 


Rouse thee from thy bed of heath ! 


The treasure back when needed. 


Arm, thou bold and strong ! 




Soldier ! what deep speU hath bound thee J 


If thou hast bruised a vine. 


Fiery steeds are neighing round thee — 


The summer's breath is healing, 


Banners to the fresh wind play : 


And its clusters yet may glow 


Rise, and arm — 'tis day, 'tis day ! 


Through the leaves, their bloom revealing : 


And thou hast slumbered long." 


But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 




"With a bright draught filled — 0, never 


" Brother ! on the heathery lea 


Shall earth give back that lavished wealth 


Longer yet my sleep must be ; 


To cool thy parched lip's fever ! 


Though the morn of battle rise, 




Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes — 


The heart is like that cup. 


Brother, this is death ! 


If thou waste the love that bore thee ; 


Call me not when bugles sound. 


A.nd like that jewel gone. 


Call me not when wine flows round ; 


Which the deep will not restore thee ; 


Name me but amidst the brave, 


And like that string of harp or lute 


Give me but a soldier's grave — 


Whence the sweet sound is scattered — 


But my bed of heath ! " 


Gently, 0, gently touch the chords. 




So soon forever shattered ! 






FAIRY SONG. 




Have ye left the greenwood lone ? 


BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. 


Are your steps forever gone ? 




Fairy King and Elfin Queen, 


Brightly, brightly hast thou fled ! 


Come ye to the sylvan scene, 


Ere one grief had bowed thy head. 


From your dim and distant shore, 


Brightly didst thou part ! 


Nevermore ? 


With thy young thoughts pure from spot, 




With thy fond love wasted not, 


Shall the pilgrim never hear 


With thy bounding heart. 


With a thrill of joy and fear, 




In the hush of moonlight hours, 


Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, 


Voices from the folded flowers, 


Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet. 


Faint, sweet flute nr .es as of yore, 


Ere with dust o'erspread : 


Nevermore ! 


Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, 




White rose which no stain hath known, 


" Mortal ! ne'er shall bowers of earth 


Be about thee shed ! 


Hear again our midnight mirth : 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



62' 



By our brooks and dingles green, 

Since unhallowed steps have been, 

Ours shall thread the forests hoar 

Nevermore. 

• Ne'er on earth-born lily's stem 
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem ; 
Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head 
Quiver to our dancing tread, 
By sweet fount or murmuring shore ■ 
Nevermore ! " 



'^THAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND. 

What woke the buried sound that lay 

In Memnon's harp of yore ? 
What spirit on its viewless way 

Along the Nile's green shore ? 
O, not the night, and not the storm. 

And not the lightning's fire ; 
But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm — 

This, this awoke the lyre. 

What vdns the heart's deep chords to pour 

Thus music forth on life — 
Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er 

The truant sounds of strife ? 
O, not the conflict 'midst the throng. 

Not e'en the trumpet's hour ; 
Love is the gifted and the strong. 

To wake that music's power ! 



SING TO ME, GONDOLIER! 

Sing to me, gondolier ! 

Sing words from Tasso's lay ; 
While blue, and still, and clear, 

Night seems but softer day. 
The gale is gently falling. 

As if it paused to hear 
Some strain the past recalling — 

Sing to me, gondolier ! 

" O, ask me not to wake 

The memory of the brave ; 
Bid no high numbers break 

The silence of the wave. 
Gone are the noble hearted. 

Closed the bright pageants here ; 
And the glad song is departed 

From the mournful gondolier ! " 



LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE 

It is thy pity makes me weep, 

My soul was strong before ; 
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep 

From vainly gushing o'er. 
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes ! 
In this fond gaze my spirit dies : 
Look on me thus no more ! 

Too late that softness comes to bless 

My heart's glad life is o'er ; 
It -will but break with tenderness. 

Which cannot now restore ! 
The lyrestrings have been jarred too long 
Winter hath touched the source of song ! 
Look on me thus no more 1 



O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS. 

O'er the far blue mountains. 
O'er the white sea foam. 

Come, thou long-parted one ! 
Back to thine home. 

When the bright fire shineth. 

Sad looks thy place ; 
While the true heart pineth. 

Missing thy face. 

Music is sorrowful 

Since thou art gone ; 
Sisters are mourning thee — 

Come to thine own ! 

Hark ! the home voices call 

Back to thy rest ; 
Come to thy father's hall, 

Thy mother's breast ! 

O'er the far blue moimtains, 
O'er the white sea foam. 

Come, thou long-parted one ! 
Back to thine home. 



O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING! 

THOU breeze of spring, 
Gladdening sea and shore I 

Wake the woods to sing. 
Wake my heart no more ! 



624 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



Streams have felt the sighing 
Of thy scented wing ; 

Let each fount replying 
Hail thee, breeze of spring ! 
Once more ! 

O'er long-buried flowers 

Passing not in vain, 
Odors in soft showers 

Thou hast brought again. 
Let the primrose greet thee, 

Let the violet pour 
Incense forth to meet thee — 

Wake my heart no more ! 
No more ! 

From a funeral urn 

Bowered in leafy gloom, 
Even thy soft return 

Calls not song or bloom. 
Leave my spirit sleeping 

Like that silent thing ; 
Stir the founts of weeping 

There, O breeze of spring ! 
No more ! 



COME TO ME, DREAMS OP HEAVEN! 

Come to me, dreams of heaven ! 

My fainting spirit bear 
On your bright wings, by morning given, 

Up to celestial air. 
Away — far, far away. 

From bowers by tempests riven. 
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 

blessed dreams of heaven ! 

Come but for one brief hour, 

Sweet dreams ! and yet again 
O'er burning thought and memory shower 

Your soft effacing rain ! 
Waft me where gales divine 

With dark clouds ne'er have striven. 
Where living founts forever shine — 

O bless6d dreams of heaven ! 



GOOD NIGHl. 

Day is past ! 
Stars have set their watch at last ; 
Founts that through the deep woods flow 
Make sweet soimds, unheard till now ; 



Flowers have shut with fading light— 
Good night ! 

Go to rest ! 
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 
If within that secret cell 
One dark form of memory dwell, 
Be it mantled from thy sight — 

Good night ! 

Joy be thine ! 
Blind looks o'er thy slumbers shine ! 
Go, and in the spirit land 
Meet thy home's long-parted band ; 
Be their eyes all love and light — 

Good night ! 

Peace to all ! 
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall ! 
Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 
Pass from thine own mountain streams | 
Bard ! away to worlds more bright — 

Good night ! 



LET HER DEPART. 

Her home is far, O, far away ! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath nought to do with earthly day — 

'Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Even as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth« 

How softly, yet how far ! 
Let her depart I 

Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love— 
O, could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 
Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way. 
But deems it sent from heavenly air 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart ! 

Rapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 
She breathes and moves alone, 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 623 


Pining for those bright bowers and streams 




Where her beloved is gone. 


THE BROKEN FLOWER. 


Let her depart ! 


0, WEAR it on thy heart, my love ! 




Still, still a little while ! 




Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 


SOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO 
LONE. 


Though faded be their smile. 
Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 
0, cast it not away ! 


How can that love so deep, so lone. 


'Twas born to grace a summer scene, 


So faithful unto death, 


A long, bright, golden day, 


Thus fitfully in laughing tone. 


My love ! 


In airy word, find breath ? 


A long, bright, golden day ! 


Nay ! ask how on the dark wave's breast. 


A little while around thee, love ! 


The lUy's cup may gleam, 


Its fragrance yet shall cling. 


Though many a mournful secret rest 


Telling, that on thy heart hath lain 


Low in the unfathomed stream. 


A fair, though faded thing. 




But not even that warm heart hath power i 


That stream is like my hidden love, 


To vsdn it back from fate : 


In its deep cavern's power ; 


0, / am hke thy broken flower, 


And like the play of words above. 


Cherished too late, too late, 


That lily's trembling flower. 


My love ! 




Cherished, alas ! too late ! 


WATER LILIES. 


I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAUN 


A FAIRY SONG. 


I WOULD we had not met again ! 




I had a dream of thee. 


Come away, elves ! — while the dew is sweet, 


Lovely, though sad, on desert plate -— 


Come to the dingles where fairies meet ! 


Mournful on midnight sea. 


Know that the lilies have spread their bells 




O'er all the pools in our forest dells ; 


What though it haunted me by night, 1 


StiUy and lightly their vases rest 


And troubled through the dav ? 


On the quivering sleep of the water's breast. 


It touched all earth Avith spirit hght. 


Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw 


It glorified mj"- way ! 


To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 




And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 


0, what shall now my faith restore 


A golden star, unto heaven looks up. 


In holy things and fair ? j 


As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie. 


We met — I saw thy soul once more — j 


Set in the blue of the summer sky. 


The world's breath had been there ! 


Come away ! Under arching boughs we'll float, 




Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 


Yes ! it was sad on desert plain. 


We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains 


Mournful on midnight sea ; 


free, 


Yet would I buy with life again 


And a tall flag leaf shall our streamer be ; 


That one deep dream of thee ! 


And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low. 




It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to 




flow, 




As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh. 




Or watcrdrops trained into melody. 


FAIRIES' RECALL. 


Come away ! for the midsummer sun grows 




strong, 


While the blue is richest 


And the life of the lily may not be long. 
79 


In the starry sky, 

j 



926 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



"While the softest shadows 
(Jn tne greensward lie, 

While the moonlight slumbers 
In the lily's urn, 

Bright elves of the wildwood ! 
O, return, return ! 

Round the forest fountain, 

On the river shore, 
Let your silvery laughter 

Echo yet once more ; 
'while the joyous bounding 

Of your dewy feet 
Rings to that old chorus — 

" The daisy is so sweet ! " • 

Oberon ! Titania ! 

Did your starlight mirth 
With the song of Avon 

Quit this workday earth ? 
Yet, while green leaves glisten, 

And while bright stars burn, 
By that magic memory, 

0, return, return ! 



THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 

0, TELL me not the woods are fair 

Now Spring is on her way ! 
Well, well I know how brightly there 

In joy the young leaves play ; 
How sweet on winds of morn or eve 

The violet's breath may be ; 
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 

My lone rock by the sea. 

The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 

The curlew's restless cries. 
Unto my watching heart are more 

Than aU earth's melodies. 
Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 

There's but one place fo" me, 
T 11 I can greet thy swift sail home — 

Mj lone rock by the sea ! 



O YE VOICES GONE! 

O YE voices gone ! 

Sounds of other years ! 

1 See the fairies' <-.horus in Cliaucer's " Flower and the 



Hush that haunting tone, 
Melt me not to tears ! 

All around forget, 

All who loved you well ; 

Yet, sweet voices ! yet 
O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring, 

With the breath of flowers, 
Floating back, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanished hours. 
Hence your music take, 

O ye voices gone ! 
This lonely heart ye make 

But more deeply lone. 



BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST. 

By a mountain stream at rest. 

We found the warrior lying, 
And around his noble breast 
A banner clasped in dying ; 
Dark and still 
Was every hill. 
And the winds of night were sighing. 

Last of his noble race, 

To a lonely bed we bore him — 
'Twas a green, still, solemn place. 

Where the mountain heath waves o'er him : 
Woods alone 
Seem to moan. 
Wild streams to deplore him. 

Yet, from festive hall and lay 

Our sad thoughts oft are flying 
To those dark hills far away. 

Where in death we found him lying ; 
On his breast 
A banner pressed. 
And the night wind o'er him sighing. 



IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING? 

Is there some spirit sighing 

With sorrow in the air ? 
Can weary hearts be dying. 

Vain love repining there f 
If not, then how can that wild wail, 

O sad ^olian lyre ! 
Be drawn forth by the wandering gal<» 

From thy deep-thrilling wir-e ^ 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 62. 


No, no ! — thou dost not borrow 


drained — ncit a drop is left; and then hursts forth the si 


That sadness from the wind, 
Nor are those tones of sorrow 
In thee, harp ! enshrined ; 


mil Itaneous chorus ' For JVor^fr?." the national song of Nor 
way. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other in 
stances in Norway, I have seen the character of a companj 
entirely changed hy the chance introduction of the expres 


But in our own hearts deeply set 


slon Oavile JVorge. The gravest discussion is instantly in 


Lies the true quivering Ij're, 
Whence love, and memory, and regret 
Wake answers from thy wire. 


terrupted ; and one might suppose for the moment that th« 
party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorati 
some national anniversary of freedom." — Derwent Cor 
Wat's Personal JVarrative of a Journey through JVorvay and 




Sweden. 




Arise ! Old Norway sends the word 


THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 
The trumpet of the battle 


Of battle on the blast ; 
Her voice the forest pines hath stirred, 
As if a storm went past ; 


Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 


Her thousand hills the call have heard. 


And the first, deep gun of an ocean fight 


And forth their fire flags cast. 


Dread music all its own. 






Arm, arm, free hunters ! for the chase, 


But a mightier power, my England ! 


The kingly chase of foes ! 


Is in that name of thine. 


'Tis not the bear or wild wolfs race 


To strike the fire from every heart 


Whose trampling shakes the snows : 


Along the bannered line. 


Arm, arm ! 'tis on a nobler trace 


Proudly it woke the spirits 


The northern spearman goes. 


Of yore, the brave and true, 


Our hills have dark and strong defiles. 


When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 


With many an icy bed ; 


And the yeoman's arrow flew. 


Heap there the rocks for funeral piles 




Above the invader's head ! 


And proudly hath it floated 


Or let the seas, that guard our isles. 


Through the battles of the sea. 


Give burial to his dead ! 


When the red-cross flag o'er smoke wreaths 




played 





Like the lightning in its glee. 






COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP! 


On rock, on wave, on bastion 




Its echoes have been known ; 


Come to me, gentle Sleep ! 


By a thousand streams the hearts lie low 


I pine, I pine for thee ; 


That have answered to its tone. 


Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep. 




And set my spirit free ! 


A thousand ancient mountains 


Each lonel}', burning thought 


Its pealing note hath stirred : 


In twilight languor steep — 


SDund on, and on, forevermore, 


Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, 


thou victorious word ! 


gentle, gentle Sleep ! 




Come with thine urn of dew. 




Sleep, gentle Sleep ! yet bring 


OLD NORWAY. 


No voice, love's yearning to renew. 


A M0UNT.VIN WAR SONO. 

I** To a Norwegian, the words Oamli JVorgi (Old Nor- 
way) have a spell in them immediate and powerful ; they 
tannot be resisted. Oamli JVorgc is heard, in an instant, 
lepoated by every voice ; the glasses ar^ tilled, raised, and 


No vision on thy wing ! 
Come, as to folding flowers, 

To birds in forests deep — 
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hoiim 

gentle, gentle Sleep ! 



128 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ., 

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE 
FOB MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH TUE SFIBIl 
OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, BY 
FELICIA HEMANS. ' 

Preface. — I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavor which I have here made to enlarge, in some 
degree, the sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the afTections, and even the 
purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle. 

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic 
embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those 
active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like 
the upward-striving flame of a mountain watchfire, borne down by tempest showers, or swayed by the current of oppos- 
ing winds. 

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the death bed, bearing " healing on its 
wings" to the agony of parting love — strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for " perils in the wilderness " — gladden- 
ing the domestic walk through field and woodland — and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest 
rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty. 

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller development 
of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature ; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense 
of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to things 
divine. — Felicia. Heman«. '• 1834 



THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; 

A SCENE OP THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY. 

" Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy I 
I am no more disconsolate." — Wilson. 

Scene I. — A Prison. 

Edith alone. 

Edith. Morn once again ! Morn in the lone, 

dim cell, 
riie cavern of the prisoner's fever dream ; 
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hiUs, 
And the bright waters round the prisoner's 

home, 
Far, far away ! Now wakes the early bird, 
lliat in the lime's transparent foliage sings. 
Close to my cottage lattice — he awakes, 
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul. 
And to call forth rich answers of delight 
From voices buried in a thousand trees 
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the 

lake 
Darken and flash in rapid interchange 



Unto the matin breeze ; and the blue mist 
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows 
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise 
As if new born. Bright world ! and I am here 
And thou, O thou ! the awakening thought of 

whom 
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun, 
Herbert ! the very glance of whose clear eye 
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount 
Of living, bounding gladness ! — where art thou 1 
My friend ! my only and my blessed love ! 
Herbert, my soul's companion ! 

Gomez, a lypanish Priest, enters 
Gom. Daughter, hail ! 
I bring thee tidings. 

Ed. Heaven wUl aid my soul 
Calmly to meet what'er thy lips announce. 
Gom. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving tri 
Heaven, 
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won ! 
Hast thou not prayed for life ? and wouWsl 

thou not 
Once more be free ? 
Ed. Have I not prayed for life > 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



62s 



L_ 



I, that am so beloved ! that love again 

With such a heart of tendrils ? Heaven ! thou 

knowest 
The gushings of my prayer ! And woii.d I not 
Once more be free ? I that have been a child 
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn 
In ancient woodlands fi-»m mine infancy ! 
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars, 
Beneath the adoring silence of the night ; 
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams, 
Whose laughter fills the mountains ! O, to hear 
Their blessed sounds again ! 

Gom. Rejoice, rejoice ! 
Our queen hath pity, maiden ! on thy youth ; 
bhe wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come 
To loose thy bonds. 

Ed. And shall I see his face. 
And shall I listen to his voice again, 
And lay my head upon his faithful breast, 
Weeping there in my gladness ? Will this be ? 
Blessings upon thee, father ! my quick heart 
Hath deemed thee stern — say, wilt thou not 

forgive 
The wayward child, too long in sunshine reared, 
Too long unused to chastening ? Wilt thou not ? 
But Herbert, Herbert ! O, my soul hath rushed 
On a swift gust of sudden joy away. 
Forgetting aU beside ! Speak, father ! speak ! 
Herbert — is he, too, free ? 

Gom. His freedom lies 
In his own choice — a boon like thine. 

Ed. Thy words 
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. 
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing 

me; 
Let all be told. 

Gom. The monarchs of the earth 
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim 
Unto some token of true vassalage, 
Some mark of homage. 

Ed. 0, unlike to Him 
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth. 
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who 

serve 
And those who heed him not ! 

Gom. {laying a paper before her.) Is it so much 
That thine own hand should set the crowning 

seal 
To thy deliverance ? Look, thy task is here ! 
Sign but these words for liberty and life. 

Ed. {examining and th/>M throwing it from her.') 
Sign but these words ! and wherefore i aidst 

thou not 
— " Be but a traitor to God's light within ' ? 
rjruel, 0, crue- ! thy dark sport hath been 



With a young bosom's hope ! Farewell, glad 

Hfe! 
Bright opening path to love and home, fare- 
well ! 
And thou — now leave me with my God alone ! 
Gom. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy ? 
Ed. Heavens ! doth Heaven 
Woo the free spirit for dishonored breath 
To sell its birthright ? — doth Heaven set a price 
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith, 
And the bright calm of conscience ? Priest, 

away ! 
God hath been with me 'midst the holiness 
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone 
I trod their heath flowers ; but high thoughts 

rose up 
From the broad shadow of the enduring 

rocks. 
And wandered with me into solemn glens, 
Where my soul felt the beauty of his word 
I have heard voices of immortal truth. 
Blent with the everlasting torrent sounds 
That make the deep hills tremble. — Shall J 

quail? 
Shall England's daughter sink? No ! He -whc 

there 
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm 
Will not forsake his child ! 

Gom. {turning from, her.) Then perish ! los* 
In thine own blindness ! 

Ed. {sicddenly throwing herself at his feet.) 
Father ! hear me yet ! 
O, if the kindly touch of human love 

Hath ever warmed thy breast 

Gom. Away — away! 
I know not love. 

Ed. Yet hear ! if thou hast known 
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice — 
If the true vigil of affection's eye 
Hath watched thy childhood — if fond teari 

have e'er 
Been showered upon thy head — if parting 

words 
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness — 
Let me but look upon his face once more, 
Let me but say — Farewell, my soul's beloved 
And I will bless thee still ! 

Gom. {aside.) Her soul may yield, 
Beholding him in fetters ; woman's faith 
Will bend to woman's love. 

Thy prayer is hearu 
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell. 
Ed. O stormy hour of agony and joy ! 
But I shall see him — I shall hear his voice ! 

[ They go out 



J30 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LITE. 



Scene II. — An Aher Part of the Prison. 
Heebebt, Edith. 

Ed. Herbert ! my Herbert ! is it thus we 

meet ? 
Her. The voice of my own Edith ! Can such 

joy 

Light up this place of death ? And do I feel 
Thy breatA of love once more upon my cheek, 
Ind the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, 

My blessed Edith ? O, so pale ! so changed ! 

My flower, my blighted flower ? thou that wert 
made 

For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs, 

How hath the storm been with thee ? Lay thy 
head 

On this true breast again, rory gentle one ! 

And tell me all. 
Ed. Yes, take me to thy heart, 

For I am weary, weary ! O, that heart ! 

The kind, the brave, the tender ! — how my soul 

Hath sickened in vain yearnings for the balm 

Of rest on that warm heart ! — full, deep repose ! 

One draught of dewy stillness after storm ! 

And God hath pitied me, and I am here — 

Yet once before I die. 
Her. They cannot slay 

One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou. 

My broken lily ! Surely the long days 

Of the dark cell have been enough for thee ! 

0, thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head 
Yet in calm sunshine. 

Ed. Herbert ! I have cast 
The snare of preferred mercy from my soul. 
This very hour. God to the weak hath given 
Victory o'er life and death. The tempter's price 
Hath been rejected — Herbert, I must die. 

Her. O Edith ! Edith ! I, that led thee first 
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod — 

1, that received it as an angel's task. 

To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, 
Which drank it as a sunflower — I have been 
Thy guide to death. 

Ed. To heaven ! my guide to heaven, 
My noble and my blessed ! O, look up. 
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert ! But for thee, 
How could my spirit have sprung up to God 
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision 

hung, 
The night o£ fear and error ? — thy dear hand 
First raised that veil, and showed the glorious 

world 
My heritage beyond. Friend ! love, and friend ! 
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul 



In those bright days : Yes ! a new earth and 

heaven. 
And a new sense for all their splendors bom — 
These were thy gifts ; and shall I not rejoice 
To die, upholding their immortal worth, 
Even for thy sake r Yes ! filled with n,>ble* 

life 
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, 
Lay me upon the altar of thy God, 
The first fruits of thy ministry below — 
Thy work, thine own ! 

Her. My love, my sainted love ! 
O, I can almost yield thee unto Heaven ; 
Earth would but sully thee ! Thou must depart, 
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts 
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas ! 
Edith ! what dreams of holy happiness, 
Even for this world, were ours ! — the low sweet 

home, 
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch. 
And lattice gleaming through the leaves — and 

thou 
My life's companion ! Thou, beside my hearth, 
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me 
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, 
In the green meadow path, or by my side 
Kneeling — thy calm uplifted face to mine, 
In the sweet hush of prayer ! And now — O, 

now ! — 
How have we loved — how fervently ! how long ! 
And this to be the close ! 

Ed. O, bear me up 
Against the unutterable tenderness 
Of earthly love, my God ! — in the sick hour 
Of dying human hope, forsake me not ! 
Herbert, my Herbert ! even from that sweet 

home 
Where it had been too much of paradise 
To dwell with thee — even thence the oppressor's 

hand 
Might soon have torn us ; or the touch of death 
Might one day there have left a widowed heart, 
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved ! 
To the bright country where the wicked cease 
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway, 
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs 
The Sabbath peace of love. We will go hence^ 
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven : 
No solitary lingering, no cold void, 
No dying of the heart ! Our lives have been 
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths 
We will not be divided. 

Her. O, the peace 
Of God is lying far within thine eyes, 
Far underneath the mist of human tears 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



631 



Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking 

thence 
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with 

strength, 
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven ! 
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert ! — in this 

hour 
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might ! 
O, thou hast loved me nobly ! thou didst take 
An orphan to thy heart — a thing unprized 
And desolate ; and thou didst guard her there. 
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl 
Of richest price ; and thou didst fill her soul 
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. 
I bless, I bless thee ! Never did thine eye 
Look on me but in glistening tenderness, 
My gentle Herbert ! Never did thy voice 
But in affection's deepest music speak 
To thy poor Edith ! Never was thy heart 
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, 
My faithful, generous Herbert ! "Woman's peace 
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true 
Reposed before. Alas ! thy showering tears 
Fall fast upon my cheek — forgive, forgive ! 
I should not melt thy noble strength away 
In such an hour. 

Her. Sweet Edith, no ! my heart 
Will fail no more. God bears me up through 

thee, 
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light 
Shining around thee, through thy very tears, 
Will yet sustain me ! Let us call on Him ! 
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, 
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, 
Th' aU-pitying One, to aid. 

[ They kneel. 
O, look on us, 
feather above ! — in tender mercy look 
On us, thy children ! — through th' o'ershadow- 

ing cloud 
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid — 
Save, or we perish ! We would pour our lives 
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth ; 
But we are weak — we, the bruised reeds of 

earth. 
Are swayed by every gust. Forgive, O God ! 
Tr e blindness of our passionate desires. 
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts 
Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ; 

accept 
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears. 
From mortal pangs wrung forth ! And if our 

souls, 
in all the fervent dreams, the fond excess. 
Of their long- clasping love, have wandered not, 



Holiest ! from thee — O, take them to thy- 
self. 
After the fiery trial — take them home 
To dwell, in that imperishable bond 
Before thee linked, forever. Hear ! — tnrongh 

Him 
Who meekly drank the cup of agony. 
Who passed through death to victory, hear and 

save ! 
Pity us. Father ! we are girt with snares : 
Father in heaven ! we have no help but thee. 

[They rise 
Is thy soul strengthened, my beloved one ? 
O Edith ! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, 
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn 
We loved in happier days — the strain which 

tells 
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade .'' 

Edith sings. 
He knelt, the Savior knelt and prayed, 

When but his Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade 

On that dread agony ; 
The Lord of all above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrow unto death- 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The stars might well grow dim. 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath, might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread. 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gathered round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away ! 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread ; 
It passed not — though to him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the Sinless thus beset 

With anguish and dismay ? 
How may we meet our conflict yet. 

In the dark, narrow way ? 
Through Him — through Him that path wb« 

trod. 
— Save, or we perish, Son of God 1 



(32 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Bai'k, hark ! the pwting signal. 

^Prison attendants enter. 
Fare thee well ! 
O thou unutterably loved, farewell ! 
Let our hearts bow to God ! 
Her. One last embrace — 
On earth the last ! We have eteriiity 
For love's communion yet ! Farewell ! — fare- 
well ! [She is led out. 
Tis o'er ! the bitterness of death is past ! 



FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM 
OF SICKNESS. 

" Once when I looked along the laughing earth, 
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, 
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song, 
I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young 
To bid farewell to so much happiness. 
But Christ hath called me from this lower world. 
Delightful thought it be." — Wilson. 

Apartment in an English country house. — Lilian 
reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother 
watching beside her. Her sister enters with 
flowers. 

Mother. Hush ! lightly tread ! Still tranquilly 

she sleeps, 
As when a babe I rocked her on my heart. 
I've watched, suspending e'en my breath, in fear 
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently ! 
And O, those flowers ! Dear Jessj' ! bear them 

hence — 
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears 
That shook her trembling frame, when last we 

brought 
The roses to her couch ? Dost thou not know 
What sudden longings for the woods and hills, 
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, 
These leaves and odors with strange influence 

wake 
In her fast-kindled soul ? 

Jessy. O, she would pine, 
Were the wild scents and glowing hues with- 
held. 
Mother ! far more than 71010 her spirit yearns 
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks, 
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome 

spring 
Their blooms recall. 
Lilian, {raising herself.') Is that my Jessy's 

voice .' 
It woke me not, sweet mother ! I had lain 
Silently, visited by waking dreams, 
Yet conscious of thy broiding watchfulness. 



Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brough 

flowers ? 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's wayward- 
ness. 
My thoughtful motlier ! — in her chastened soul 
The passion- colored images of life. 
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoka 
So oft those burning tears, have died away ; 
And night is there — still, solemn, holy night ! 
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune 
Of many fountains, low and musical, 
By day unheard. 

Mother. And wherefore night, my child .'' 
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, 
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, 
And walk forth with the dayspring. 

Lilian. Hope it not ! 
Dream it no more, my mother ! — there are things 
Known but to God, and to the parting soul. 
Which feels his thrilling summons. 

But raj words 
Too much o'ershadow those kind, loving eyes. 
Bring me thj^ flowers, dear Jessy ! Ah ! thy 

step, 
Well do I see, hath not alone explored 
The garden bowers, but freely visited 
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow 

sweet 
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river nook. 
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy 

stones 
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that 

spot 
Lovely as when our glad eyes hailed it first ? 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep 
The clear brown wave with every passing wind ? 
And through the shallower waters, where they 

he 
Dimpling in light, do the veined pebbles gleam 
Like bedded gems .' And the white butterflies, 
From shade to sunstreak are they glancing still 
Among the poplar boughs ? 

Jessy. All, all is there 
Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can 

bring ; 
All, save the soul of ah, thy lightning smile ! 
Therefore I stood in sv^dnesji 'midst the leaves, 
And caught an under-sausic of lament 
In the stream's voice. But Nature waits thee 

still, 
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne 
Of richest moss. 

Lilian. Alas ! it may not be ! 
My soul hath sent her farewell TjoicelesSi.y 
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



63) 



Yet not the less I love to look on these, 

Their dear memorials — strew them o'er my 

couch 
Till it grow liKe a forest bank in spring, 
All flushed with violets and anemones. 
Ah ! the pale .1 'rifir rose ! touched so tenderly, 
A? a pure ocean shell, with faintest red. 
Ml ..ting hwaj to pearliness ! I know 
How its long, light festoons o'erarching hung 
From the gray rock that rises altar-like, 
Wifn its high, waving crown of mountain ash, 
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough 
Of honeyed woodbine tells me of the oak, 
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily. 
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face 
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now ; 
I look up through the stirring of its leaves 
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament. 
ITie ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head, 
Casting at times a silvery shadow down 
'Midst the large water lilies. Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this fair, free world 
Under God's open sky ! 

Mother. Thou art o'erwrought 
Once more, my child ! The dewy, trembling light 
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. 
O, hush, dear Lilian ! turn thee to repose. 

Lilian. Mother ! I cannot. In my soul the 
thoughts 
Bum with too subtle and too swift a fire ; 
Importunately to my lips they throng, 
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend 
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone — 
(For I must go) — then the remembered words, 
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth. 
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets 
Held there, with life and love. And weep not 

thus, 
Mother ! dear sister ! — kindest, gentlest ones ! 
Be comforted that now I weep no more 
For the glad earth and all the golden Ught 
Whence I depart. 

No ! God hath purified my spirit's eye. 
And in the folds of this consummate rose 
I read bright prophecies. I see not there, 
Dimly and mournfully, the word ^'farewell" 
On the rich petals traced. No — in soft veins 
And characters of beauty, I can read — 
" Look up, look heavenward ! " 

Blessed God of Love ! 
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links 
Whereby my spirit imto thee is drawn ! 
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth 
Higher than earth can raise me ! Are not these 
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom 
80 



Beside th' immortal streams ? Shall I not find 
The lily of the field, the Savior's flower, 
In the serene and never-moaning air, 
And the clear starry light of angel eyes, 
A thousand fold more glorious ? Richer far 
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, 
When it hath ne'er been pressed to broken hearts^ 
A record of lost love ? 

Mother. My Lilian ! thou 
Surely in thy bright life hast little known 
Of lost things or of changed ! 

Lilian. O, little yet. 
For thou hast been my shield ! But had it been 
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown, 
Without th}'^ love, O mother ! there are hearts 
So perilously fashioned, that for them 
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough 
To waken, and not break, their thrilling 

strings ! — 
We will not speak of this ! 

By what strange spell 
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, 
I dream of music ? Something in their hues, 
All melting into colored harmonies. 
Wafts a s-wift thought of interwoven chords. 
Of blended singing tones, that sweU and die 
In tenderest falls away. O, bring thy harp, 
Sister ! A gentle heaviness at last 
Hath touched mine eyelids : sing to me, and sleep 
Will come again. 

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear ? — the Italian 
peasant's lay. 
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring 
With " Roma ! Roma ! " or the madrigal 
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily .'' 
Or the old ditty left by troubadours 
To girls of Languedoc ? 

Lilian. O, no ! not these. 

Jessy. What then ? — the Moorish melody still 
known 
Within the Alhambra city ? or those notes 
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart 
even unto death ? 

Lilian. No, sister ! nor yet these — 
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret. 
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes 
In the caressing sweetness of their tones. 
For one who dies. They would but woo m* 

back 
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds — 
And vainly, vainly. No ! a loftier strain, 
A deeper music ! — something that may beat 
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings, 
Unswayed by gusts of earth ; something all fiUed 
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. 



BU SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


Sing me that antique strain whicli once I deemed 


0, therefore unto thee. 


Almost too sternly simple, too austere 


Thou that hast known all woes 


In its grave majesty ! I love it now — 


Bound in the girdle of mortality ! 


ffow it seems fraught with holie&t power to 


Thou that wilt lift the reed 


hush 


Which storms have bruised, 


All billows of the soul, e'en like His voice 


To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, 


That said of old — " B.e still ! " Sing me that 


And, in that tempest hour, when love and life 


strain, 


Mysteriously must part, 


"The Savior's dying hour." 


When tearful eyes 




Are passionately bent 


Jessy sinffs to the Harp. 


To drink earth's last fond meaning from our ga&^ 


Son of man ! 


Then, then forsake us not ! 


In thy last mortal hour 


Shed on our spirits then 


Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully ! 


The faith and deep submissiveness of thine ! 


All that on us is laid, 


Thou that didst love 


AU the deep gloom, 


Thou that didst weep and die — 


The desolation and the abandonment, 


Thou that didst rise a victor glorified ; 


The dark amaze of death — 


Conqueror ! thou Son of God ! 


All upon thee too fell. 




Redeemer ! Son of man ! 




But the keen pang 




Wherewith the silver cord 


CATHEDRAL HYMN. 


Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung ; 


" They dreamt not of a perishable home 


The uptearing of those tendrils which have 


Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fetl 




Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." 


grown 


WOEDSWOMH. 


Into the quick, strong heart ; 




This, this — the passion and the agony 


A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 


Of battling love and death, 


A temple shadowy with remembrances 


Surely was not for thee, 


Of the majestic past ! The very light 


Holy One ! Son of God ! 


Streams with a coloring of heroic days 




In every ray, which leads through arch and aislf 


Yes, my Redeemer ! 


A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 


E'en this cup was thine ! 


To other years ! — and the rich-fretted roof, 


Fond, wailing voices called thy spirit back ; 


And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 


E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts 


Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 


Of that last crowning hour — 


The tenderest image of mortality — 


E'en on thine awful way to victory. 


Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 


Wildly they called thee back ! 


Cluster like stems in corn sheaves ; — aU these 


And weeping eyes of love 


things 


Unto thy heart's deep 3ore 


Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly 


Eierced through the folds of death's mysterious 


On their heart' s worship poured a wealth ctf loTe I 


veil. 


Honor be with the dead ! The peof .e kneel 


Suffer ! thou Son of man ! 


Under the helms of antique chivalry, 




And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 


Mother tears were mingled 


And 'midst the forms, in pale, proud slumbei 


With thy costly blooddrops, 


carved. 


In the shadow of the atoning cross ; 


Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel 


And the friend, the faithful, 


Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jew- 


He that on thy bosom 


elled crowns 


Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain — 


On the flushed brows of conquerors have been 


He, a pale sad watcher, 


set ; 


Met with looks of anguish 


Where the high anthems of old victories 


All the anguish in thy last meek glance — 


Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vail 


Dying Son of man ! 


thoughts ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 636 


Memories of power and pride, which long ago, 


The sorrow for the dead, 


Lik.« dim processions of a dream, have sunk 


Mantling its lonely head 


In twilight depths away. Return, my soul ! 


From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, ad 


The Cross recalls thee. Lo ! the blessed Cross ! 


free; 


High o'er the banners and the crests of earth. 


And the fond, aching love, 


Fixed in its meek and still supremacy ! 


Thy minister to move 


And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 


AU the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 


With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 




All their fuU treasures of immortal hope. 


And doth not thy dread eye 


Gathered before their God ! Hark ! how the 


Behold the agony 


flood 


In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 


Of the rich organ harmony bears up 


Where darkly sits remorse. 


Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! 


Beside the secret source 


A forest-sounding music ! Every tone 


Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ? 


Which the blasts call forth with their harping 




wings 


Yes ! here before thy throne 


From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent : 


Many — yet each alone — 


And the old minster — forest-like itself — 


To thee that terrible unveiling make : 


With its long avenues of pillared shade, 


And still, small whispers clear 


Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 


Are startling many an ear. 


O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 


As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 


One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy 




Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my 


How dreadful is this place 1 


soul ! 


The glory of thy face 


In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 


Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. 


And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 


Where shall the guilty flee ? 




Over what far-off sea ? 


Rise like an altar fire ! 


What hills, what woods, may shroud him from 


In solemn joy aspire, 


that light ? 


Deepening thy passion still, choral strain ! 




On thy strong rushing wind 


Not to the cedar shade 


Bear up from humankind 


Let his vain flight be made ; 


rhanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 


Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 




What but the Cross can yield 


Father, which art on high ! 


The hope — the stay — the shield ? 


Weak is the melody 


Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee ! 


Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, 




Unless the heart be there, 


Be thou, be thou his aid ! 


Winging the words of prayer 


0, let thy love pervade 


With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 


The haunted caves of self-accusing thought I 




There let the living stone 


Let, then, thy Spirit brood 


Be cleft — the seed be sown — 


Over the multitude — 


The song of fountains from the silence brought 


Be thou amidst them, through that heavenly 




Guest ! 


So shall thy breath once more 


So shall their cry have power 


Within the soul restore 


To win from thee a shower 


Thine own first image — Holiest and Most High ! 


Of healing gifts for every woimded breast. 


As a clear lake is filled 




With hues of heaven, instilled 


What griefs that make no sign, 


Down to the depths of its cabn purity. 


That ask no aid but thine. 




Father of mercies ! here before thee swell ! 


And if, amidst the throng 


As to the open sky, 


Linked by the ascending song. 


All their dark waters lie 


There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture 


•Jo thee revealed, in each close bosom cell. 


soar. 



536 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Thanks, Father ! that the power 
Of joy, man's early dower, 
Hiua, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine, 
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits the harvest time, is there. 



WOOD WALK AND HYMN. 

" Move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods." 

Wordsworth. 

Father — Child. 
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery 

leaves 
Trembling, forever trembling ; though the lime 
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching 

spraj's 
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood 
Were all one picture ! 

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, 
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree ? 
Child. No, father : doth he say the fairies 

dance 
Amidst the branches ? 

Father. O, a cause more deep, 
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign 
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves ! 
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon 
The meek Redeemer bowed his head to death, 
Was framed of aspen wood ; and since that hour. 
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down 
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe. 
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze 
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes 
The light lines of the shining gossamer. 

Child, {after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, 

father ? 
Father. Nay, my child, 
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, 
With something of a lingering love, I read 
The characters, by that mysterious hour, 
Stamped on the reverential soul of man 
In visionary days, and thence thrown back 
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign 
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven. 
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace 
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so ! 
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand. 



Would pluck these salutary fancies forth 
From their strong soil within the peasant*! 

breast, 
And scatter them — far, far too fast — away 
As worthless weeds. O, little do we know 
When they have soothed, when saved ! 

But come, dear boy ! 
My words grow tinged with thought too deep 

for thee. 
Come — let us search for violets. 

Child. Know you not 
More of the legends which the woodman tell 
Amidst the trees and flowers ? 

Father. Wilt thou know more ? 
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown 

stains, 
There — by the mossy roots of yon old beech, 
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips — seest thou 

not? 
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree 
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight. 
Child. The arum leaf? 

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks, 
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice 
Lowered in his true heart's reverent earnestness,) 
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood 
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; 
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf. 
Catching from that dread shower of agony 
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus 
Unto the groves and hills their sealing stains, 
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind 
Never to waft away ! 

And hast thou seen 
The passion flower ? It grows not in the woods, 
But 'midst the bright things brought from othei 

climes. 
Child. What ! the pale star-shaped flower, 

with purple streaks, 
And light green tendrils ? 

Father. Thou hast marked it well. 
Yes ! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, 
As from a land of spirits ! To mine eye 
Those faint, wan petals — colorless, and yet 
Not white, but shadowj' — with the mystic linei 
(As letters of some wizard language gone) 
Into their vapor-like transparence wrought, 
Bear something of a strange solemnity, 
Awfully lovely ! — and the Christian's thought 
Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find 
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs 
Set by God's hand — the coronal of thorns — 
The cross, the wounds — with other meanings 

deep, 
Which I will teach thee when we meet again 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



037 



fhat flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath, 
rhe Savxor's holy flower. 

But let us pause : 
Now have we reached the verj' inmost heart 
Of the old wood. How the green shadows 

close 
Into a rich, clear, summer da? kness round, 
A luxury of gloom ! Scarce doth one ray, 
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal 
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades ; 
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellowed hue 
Of glowworm-colored light. 

Here, in the days 
Of pagan ripions, would have been a place 
For worship of the wood nymphs ! Through 

these oaks 
A small, fair- gleaming temple might have thrown 
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts 
On the stream's bosom, or a sculptured form, 
Dryad, or fountain goddess of the gloom. 
Have bowed its head o'er that dark crystal down, 
Drooping with beauty, &« a lily droops 
Under bright rain. But ine, my child, are here 
With God, our God, a Spirit, Tvho requires 
Heart worship, given in spirit and in truth ; 
And this high knowledge — deep, rich, vast 

enough 
To fill and hallow aU the solitude - 
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move. 
Without the aid of shrines. 

What ! dost thou feel 
The solemn-whispering influence of tlie scene 
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw 
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand 
Faster in thine ? Nay, fear not, gentle child ! 
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades 
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me 

here. 
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope 
With dark exuberance ; and beneath these 

plumes 
Of wavy fern, look where the cup moss holds 
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright. 
The starry dews of morning. Rest a while. 
And let me hear once more the woodland verse 
I taught thee'late — 'twas made for such a scene. 
Child speaks. 

WOOD HYMN. 

Broods there some spirit here ? 
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud ; 
And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, 
f he wildwood hyacinth with awe seems bowed ; 
A.nd something of a tender cloistral gloom 

Deepens the violet's bloom. 



The very light that streams 
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage roiind 
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams -* 
As if it knew the place were holy ground, 
And would not startle, vdth too bright a burst, 

Flowers all divinely nursed. 

Wakes there some spirit here ? 
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rush« 

ing by ; 
And leaves and waters, in its wild career, 
Shed forth sweet voices — each a mystery ! 
Surely some awful influence must pervade 

These depths of trembling shade I 

Yes ! lightly, softly move • 
There is a power, a presence in the woods ; 
A viewless being that, with life and love, 
Informs the reverential solitudes : 
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod- 

Thou — thou art here, my God ! 

And if with awe we tread 
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane, 
And, 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead, 
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem kss thy 

fane. 
Where thou alone hast built ? — where arch and 
roof 
Are of thy living woof ? 

The silence and the sound. 
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee ; 
The temple twilight of the gloom profound, 
The dewcup of the frail anemone, 
The reed by every wandering whisper thrilled — 

All, all with thee are filled ! 

O, purify mine eyes. 
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, 
Thy presence, holiest One ! to recognize 
In these majestic aisles which thou hast -wrought, 
And, 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine 
ear 

Ever thy voice to hear ! 

And sanctify my heart 
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone 
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, 
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own 
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowera 

Ere sin had dimmed the flowers. 

Let me not know the change 
O'er nature thrown by guilt ! — the boding <ik'» 



638 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



The hollow leaf sounds ominous and strange, 
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie ! 
Father ! O, keep my footsteps pure and free, 
To walk the woods with thee ! 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 



' Soul of our souls I and 8afegu<ird of the Tforld! 
Sustain — Thou only canst — the sick at heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost afl'ections unto thee and thine." — Wordswobth. 



s 



Night — holy night — the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime ! 
Night ! — when in happier hour the unveiling sky 

"Woke all my kindled soul 
To meet its revelations, clear and high. 
With the strong joy of immortality ! 
Now hath strange sadness wrapped me, strange 

and deep — 
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them 

roll. 
E'en when I deemed them seraph- plumed, to 
sweep 
Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this ? I see the stars returning. 
Fire after fire in heaven's rich temple burning : 
Fast shine they forth — my spirit friends, my 

guides. 
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides ; 
They shine — but faintly, through a quivering 

haze : 
O, is the dimness mine which clouds those rays ? , 
They from whose glance my childhood drank 

delight ! 
A joy unquestioning — a love intense — 
They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight 
The harmony of their magnificence. 
Drew silently the worship of my youth 
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth ; 
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams 

divine, 

Dowi ■'^ the watcher on the stormy sea, 

A.nd to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine 

Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 

And to the wanderer lone 

On wastes of Afric thrown, 

And not to me ? 
Am I a thing forsaken ? 
And is the gladness taken 
From the bright- pinioned nature which hath 

soared 
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored, 



And, bathing there in streams of fiery hght, 
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite ? 

And now an alien ! Wherefore must this hft ? 

How shall I rend the chain ? 

How drink rich life again 
From those pure urns of radiance, welling 

free ? 
— Father of spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

O, if too much exulting in her dower, 

My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, 
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power — 

A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 
And therefore from that haughty summit's crown 
To dim desertion is by thee cast down. 
Behold ! thy child submissively hath bowed — 
Shine on him through the cloud ! 

Let the now darkened earth and curtained heaven 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 
Bear him on high once more, 
But in thy strength to soar, 
And rapt and stilled by that o'ershadowing 

might. 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chas- 
tened sight. 

Or if it be that, like the ark's lone dove, 
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, 
No sheltering home of sympathy and love 
In the responsive bosoms of my race. 
And back return, a darkness and a weight, 
Till my unanswered heart grows desolate — 
Yet, yet sustain me. Holiest ! — I am vowed 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endowed, 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary. 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day, 

Because no human tone 

Unto the altar stone 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, 
"Where it should make eternal truth its mate, 
May cheer the sacred, solitary way ? 

O, be the whisper of thy voice within^ 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep seeing homage for thy name. 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! — Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled, 

"Which glorious minds have pUed 
Through bright self-off'ering, earnest, childlike^ 
lone. 

For mounting to thy throne ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



«3» 



And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn, 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that blessed work, its own high recompense. 

The dimness melts away 

That on your glory lay, 
ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 

Through the dissolving veil, 

AVhich made each aspect pale, 
Your gladdening fires once more I recognize ; 

And once again a shower 

Of hope, and joy, and power 
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 
And if that splendor to my sobered sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light — 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught 
With more that pierces through each fold of 
thought 

Than I was wont to trace 

On heaven's unshadowed face — 
Be it e'en so ! — be mine, though set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart. 
Bowed before thee, O Mightiest ! whose blessed 

will 
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.* 



THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG. 

Father ! guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow : 
Hushed is now the convent's bell. 
Which ere while with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greeting to the sunset shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung stiU. ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of the sky. 
There are signs of tempests nigh. 

1 Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on As- 
Sronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir Wil- 
liam Hamilton, royal astronoraer of Ireland, on the 8th No- 
vember. 1833. 



Ominous, with sullen sound. 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade, 

O'er the wild, 
O, be thou the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child ! 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom. 
O'er my way hath flitted fast 
Since the farewell sunbeam passed 
From the chestnut's ruddy bark. 
And the pools, now lone and dark, 
Where the wakening night winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste - 

God of might ! 
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste ' 

Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle nest. 

Now my babe is laid to rest 5 

Beautiful its slumber seems 

With a glow of heavenly dreams — 

Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep, 

Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 

Where his mother bends to pray 

For the loved and far away. 

Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding power, 

Lead me there ! 

Darker, wilder grows the night ; 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern, old forest made. 
Thou ! to v\'hose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies ; 
By thy Son, who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness. 
Where no roof to that blessed head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through the time of dread. 

Save — 0, save ! 



BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILT> 
IN THE FORESTS. 

Scene. — The hanks of a solitary river in aji 
American forest. A tent under pine trees in the 
foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent with 
a child in her arms apparently sleeping. 



040 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream — a fever 

dream ! 
The desolation and the agony — 
The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods, 
So terrible with their dark giant boughs. 
And the broad, lonely river ! — all a dream ! 
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its 

clear, 
WuQ. singing tones, as they were wont to come 
Through the wreathed sweetbrier at my lattice 

panes 
In happy, happy England ! Speak to me ! 
Speak to thy mother, bright one ! she hath 

watched 
iUl the dread night beside thee, till her brain 
Is darkened by swift waves of fantasies. 
A.nd her soul faint vnth longing for thy voice. 
0, I must wake him with one gentle kiss 
On his fair brow ! 
{Shudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling 

touch ! 
The marble chill ! Now, now it rushes back — 
Now I know all ! — dead — dead ! — a fearful 

word ! 
My boy hath left me in the wilderness, 
To journey on without the bless6d light 
In his deep, loving eyes. He's gone ! — he's 

gone ! 

Her Husband enters. 
Husband. Agnes ! my Agnes ! hast thou 

looked thy last 
On our sweet slumberer's face ? The hour is 

come — 
The couch made ready for his last repose. 

Agnes. Not yet ! thou canst not take him from 

me yet ! 
If he but left me for a few short days, 
This were too brief a gazing time to draw 
His angel image into my fond heart. 
And fix its beauty there. And now — O, now, 
Never again the laughter of his eye 
Shall send its gladdening summer through my 

soul — 
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay ! 
Thou canst not take him from me. 

Husband. My beloved ! 
Is it not God hath taken him ? the God 
That took our first born, o'er whose early 

gravo 
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and 

say, 
• His will be done ! " 

Agnes. O, that near household grave. 
Under the turf of England, seemed not half — 



Not half so much to part me from my child 
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, 
And I could watch the sunshine, through al] 

hours. 
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot ; 
And I could dress its greensward with freeh 

flowers. 
Familiar meadow flowers. O'er thee, my babe ! 
The primrose will not blossom ! O, that now, 
Together, by thy fair young sister's side. 
We lay 'midst England's valleys I 

Husband. Dost thou grieve, 
Agnes ! that thou hast followed o'er the deep 
An exile's fortunes ? If it thus can be. 
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, 
My spirit sinks at last. 

Agnes. Forgive ! forgive ! 
My Edmund, pardon me ! O, grief is wild — 
Forget its words, quick spraydrops from a fount 
Of unkown bitterness ! Thou art my home ! 
Mine only and my blessed one ! Where'er 
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, 
There is my country ! there my head shall rest, 
And throb no more. O, still, by thy strong love, 
Bear up the feeble reed ! 

( Kneeling with the child in her arms.) 

And thou, my God . 
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness ! 
O, hear, and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark 
Fraught with mine earthward -clinging happi- 
ness, 
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, 
O, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebelled. 
And from thy light turned wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony. 
When the despairmg passion of her clasp 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine almighty hand — 0, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul 
The tempests and the waves will know thy 

voice — 
Father ! say, " Peace, be still " 

{Giving the child to her husband.) 

Farewell, mj*^ babe ! 
Go from my bosom now to other reyt ! 
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow. 
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears, 
I vield thee to thy Maker ! 

Husband, Now, my wife ! 
Thine own meek holiness beamt forth once more 
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear. 
From thy dear arms, the slu^aberer to repose — 
With a calm, trustful heart 



Agnes. My Edmund ! -where — 
Where wilt thou lay him ? 

Husband. Seest thou where the spire 
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun 
To burning gold ? — there — o'er yon willow 

tuft? 
Under that native desert monument 
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, 
With the gray mosses of the wilderness 
Hath lined it closely through ; and there breathed 

forth. 
E'en from the fulness of liis own pure heart, 
A wild, sad forest hymn — a song of tears. 
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy 
Chanting it o'er his solitary task, 
As wails a wood bird to the thrilling leaves, 
Perchance unconsciously. 
Agnes. My gentle son ! 
The affectionate, the gifted ! "With what joy — 
Edmund, rememberest thou ? — with what 

bright ]oy 
His baby brother ever to his arms 
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully 
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair 
In that kind, useful breast ! 0, now no more ! 
But strengthen me, my God ! and melt my heart, 
Even to a wellspring of adoring tears, 
For many a blessing left. 

{Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell ! 
O, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look ! 
How can it be sustained ? Away, away ! 

{After a short pmise.) 
Edmund ! my woman's nature still is weak — 
I cannot see thee render dust to dust ! 
Go thou, my husband ! to thy solemn task ; 
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer 
Till thy return. 

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer ! 
Peace on thy bosom. ! Faith and heavenly 

hope 
Unto thy spirit ! Fare thee well a while ! 
We must be pilgrims of the woods again, 
After this mournful hour. 

, He goes out with the child. — Agnes kneels in 
prayer. — After a time, voices without are heard 
singing.) 

FUNERAL HYMN. 

Where the long reeds quiver, 

Where the pines make moan. 
By the forest river. 
Sleeps our babe alone. 
England's field flowers may not deck his grave, 
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave. 



Woods unknown receive him, 

'Midst the mighty wild ; 

Yet with God we leave him, 

Blessed, blessed child ! 

And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust, 

Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. 

Though his eye hath brightened 

Oft our wearj' way. 
And his clear laugh lightened 
Half our hearts' dismay ; 
Still in hope we give back what was given. 
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven. 

And to her who bore him, 

Her who long must weep, 
Yet shall Heaven restore him 
From his pale, sweet sleep ! 
Those blue eyes of love and peace again 
Through her soul will shine, undimmed by pain. 

Where the long reeds quiver. 

Where the pines make moan. 
Leave we by the river 
Earth to earth alone ! 
God and Father ! may our journeyings op 
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone ' 

From the exile's sorrow. 

From the wanderer's dreau 
Of the night and morrow. 
Earl]- briohtly fled. 
Thou hast called him to a sweeter homo 
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam 

Now let thought behold him. 

With his angel look. 
Where those arms infold him, 
Which benignly took 
Isriiel's babes to their good Shepherd's breast. 
When his voice their tender meekness blessed. 

Turn thee now, fond mother ! 

From thy dead, 0, turn ! 
Linger not, young brother, 
Here to dream and mourn : 
Only kneel once more around the sod, 
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God ! 



EASTER DAY IN A MOUNTAIN 
CHURCHYARD. 

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the mom 1 



Bright gleams are scattered from the thousand 

rills, 
A.nd a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the imbosomed -woods — a silvery green, 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously 

serene 

And lo ! where floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone tmidst a -.'rystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high. 

Trembles with melodj' ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Ts on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth. 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are 

shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's 

head. 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye 
O'er nature's face the coloring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the fount of immortality, 
Which, filled with balm, unknown to human 

woes. 

Lay hushed in dark repose, 
Till thou, bright dayspring ! mad'st its waves 

our own, 
By thine unsealing of the burial stone. 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye 

hills ! 
And let a full victorious tone be given, 
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 
Your urn-like depths with sound ! The tomb is 

riven. 

The radiant gate of neaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's 

bosom past. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead. 
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand. 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature, sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace 
hath grown. 



Christ hath arisen ! O, not one cherished head 
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillowed 

here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,j 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
Which lit the living way to all of woman bom 

Thou hast wept mournfully, human love ! 
E'en on this greensward : night hath heard thj 

cry. 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above — 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who w.eptlike thee, thy Lord, thy Guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love ! thy tears shall all be 

dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those 

tears. 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassioned soul, in elder years, 
When, burdened with the mystery of its doom, 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts 

of death. 

By thee, sad Love ! and by thy sister. Fear, 
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To veil that haunting shadow, still too near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought. 

And where the board was fraught 
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower. 
Felt, e'en when disavowed, a presence and » 
power. 

But that dark night is closed ; and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have 

blown. 
Arid where the mountain heath a couch has 

spread, 
And, settling oft on some gray, lettered stone. 

The redbreast warbles lone ; 
And the wild bee's deep drowsy murmurs pasa, 
Like a low thrill of harpstrings, through the 

grass ; 

Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's 

sleep, 
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye 
For Hope, sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 
Seem all one sanctuary 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 64d 


Of holiest thought — nor needs their fresh, 




bright sod, 


THE CHILD READING THE BIBLK 


tlm, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to 




God. 


" A dancing shape, an image gay. 


'I'o liaunt, to startle, to waylay. 


Christ hath arisen ! mountain peaks ! attest — 


A being breathing thoughtful breath, 


Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave ! 


A traveller between life and death." 

WOBDSWOBTB. 


The immortal courage in the human breast 




Sprung from that victory — tell how oft the 


I SAW him at his sport ere while, 


brave 


The bright, exulting boy! 


To camp 'midst rock and cave, 


Like summer's lightning came the smile 


XServed by those words, their struggling faith 


Of his young spirit's joy — 


have borne. 


A flash that, wheresoe'er it broke, 


Planting the cross on high above the clouds of 


To life undreamed-of beauty woke. 


morn ! 


His fair locks waved in sunny play, 


ITie Alps have heard sweet hymnings for 


By a clear fountain's side. 


to-day — 


Where jewel-colored pebbles lay 


Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone 


Beneath the shallow tide ; 


Have thrilled their pines, when those that knelt 


And pearly spray at times would meet 


to pray 


The glancing of his fairy feet. 


Rose up to arm ! The pure, high snows have 




known 


He twined him wreaths of all spring flowera. 


A coloring not their own, 


Which drank that streamlet's dew; 


Bui; from true hearts, which, by that crimson 


He flung them o'er the wave in showers, 


stain, 


Till, gazing, scarce I knew 


Gave token of a trust that called no suffering 


Which seemed more pure, or bright, or wild 


vain. 


The singing fount or laughing child. 


Those days are past — the mountains wear no 


To look on all that joy and bloom 


more 


Made earth one festal scene. 


The solemn splendor of the martyr's blood ; 


Where the dull shadow of the tomb 


And may that awful record, as of yore, 


Seemed as it ne'er had been. 


Never again be known to field or flood ! 


How could one image of decay 


E'en though the faithful stood. 


Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day ? 


A noble army, in the exulting sight 




Of earth and heaven, which blessed their battle 


I saw once more that aspect bright — 


for the right ! 


The boy's meek head was bowed 




In silence o'er the Book of Light, 


But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 


And, like a golden cloud, — 


Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 


The still cloud of a pictured sky, — 


And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 


His locks drooped round it lovingly. 


And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 




Thus steadfastly endure, 


And if my heart had deemed him fair, 


Glory to Him whose victory won that dower ! 


When, in the fountain glade, 


HJTn from whose rising streamed that robe of 


A creature of the sky and air. 


spirit power. 


Almost on wings he played. 




0, how much holier beauty now 


Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 


Lit the young human being's brow 1 


Light to the nations ! He hath rolled away 




The mists which, gathering into death- like rest, 


The being born to toil, to die. 


Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay — 


To break forth from the tomb 


His love hath made it day 


Unto far nobler destiny 


With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea ! 


Than waits the skylark's plume ! 


viift up glad strains for man by truth divine 


I saw him, in that thoughtful hour. 


made free ! 


Win the first knowledge of his dower. 



The soul, the awakening soul I saw — 

My watching eye could trace 
The shadows of its new-born awe 

Sweeping o'er that fair face, 
As o'er a flower might pass the shade 
By some dread angel's pinion made ! 

The sold, the mother of deep fears. 

Of high hopes infinite, 
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, 

Of sleepless inner sight ; 
Lovely, but solemn, it arose, 
Unfolding what no more might close. 

The red-leaved tablets,' undefiled, 

As yet, by evil thought — 
O, little dreamed the brooding child 

Of what within me wrought, 
While his young heart first burned and stirred. 
And quivered to the eternal word. 

And reverently mj' spirit caught 

The reverence of his gaze — 
A sight with dew of blessing fraught 

To hallow after days ; 
To make the proud heart meekly wise, 
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. 

It seemed as if a temple rose 

Before me brightly there ; 
And in the depths of its repose 

My soul o'erflowed with prayer, 
Feeling a solemn presence nigh — 
The power of infant sanctity ! 

O Father ! mould my heart once more 

By thy prevailing breath ! 
Teach me, O, teach me to adore 

E'en with that pure one's faith — 
A faith, all made of love and light. 
Childlike, and therefore full of might ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

" Be mute who will, who can s 
Tet I will praise thee with Impasaioned voice I 
Sfe didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Beared for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and every where." — WoiiDSWOBTH. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! I lift mine eye, 
And bless thee, my God ! that I have met 

1 " All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon 
tie red-leaved tablets of my heart." — Haywood. 



And owned thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that nerei 
yet 
There hath thy face been shrouded from my 

sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine. 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, 
In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains 
old. 
And the low thrillings of the forest shade. 

And the wild sound of waters uncontrolled — 
And upon many a desert plain and shore — 
No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 

The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye. 
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings 
spread. 
To reach the hidden fountain urns that lie 
Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 
And pure, a consecration unto thee . 
I bless thee, my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening powSr— if thou hast made 
Like the winged seed the breathings of my 
thought. 
And by the swift winds bid them be conveyed 
To lands of other lays, and there become 
Native as early melodies of home : 
I bless thee, O mj God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath. 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead. 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper, in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne. 

Or but one hope, one prayer — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, 

Yet, with a coloring halo from above, 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



64. 



Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 
Btill weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 

Anil by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness. 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

1 have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Wellspring of love, the unfathomed, the divine, 
I bless thee, iny God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, 
or dread, 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken 

Whereby its torcldight for the race was fed : 
rhat passing storms have only fanned the fire 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal 
spire, 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale. 

Each sound and token of the dying day ; 
Thou leav'st me not — though early life grows 
pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

4nd if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams. 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

Tis not that fondly I would linger here. 

But that thy footprints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And that the tender shadowing I behold. 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower. 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould. 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

'I'hat life's last r.oses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young, vernal voices in the skies 
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine 
ear, 
Beem heralds of th' eternal melodies, 

The spirit music, imperturbed and clear — 
Che full of soul, yet passionate no more : 
Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come — 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children 
are ! 
And for the hope of that immortal home, 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star 
The sufferer and the victor king of death, 
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, my God ! 



THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTEB 
SCOTT. 

" Many an eye 
May wail the dimming of our shiniug rtar."— SaxKaPEARM, 

A GLORIOUS voice hath ceased ! 
Mournfully, reverently — the funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! There is a dreamy sound, 
A hollow murmur of the dying year. 
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad ! 
A more ^olian, melancholy tone 
Than ever wailed o'er bright things perishing ! 
For that is passing from the darkened land 
Which the green summer will not bring u» 

back, 
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! They bear the mighty forth, 
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind ; 
They bear him through the household paths, 

the groves, 
Where every tree had music of its own 
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love — 
And he is silent ! Past the living stream 
They bear him now ; the stream whose kindly 

voice. 
On alien shores, his true heart burned to hear — • 
And he is silent ! O'er the heathery hills, 
Which his own soul had mantled with a light 
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move — 
And he it ^".^ent ! — he, whose flexile Ups 
Were but unsealed, and lo ! a thousand forms, 
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, 
In glowing life upsprang — vassal and chief. 
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle peel, 
Fast rushing through the brightly-troubled aiij 
Like the Wild Huntsman's band. And st'" 

they live. 
To those fair scenes imperishably bound, 
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by. 
Startle the wanderer who hath listened theie 
To the seer's voice ; phantoms of colored thought, 
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence ! 
O power, whose breathings thus could wake th« 

dead ! 



*46 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Who shall wake thee ? lord of the buried past ! 
And art thou there, — to those dim nations joined, 
Thy subject host so long ? The wand is dropped, 
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand 
Touched, and the genii came ! Sing reverently 
The funeral chant ! The mighty is borne home. 
And who shall be his mourners ? Youth and 

age, 
For each hath felt his magic — love and grief, 
For he hath communed with the heart of 

each ; 
Yes — the free spirit of humanity 
May join the august procession, for to him 
Its mysteries have been tributary things, 
And all its accents known. From field or wave, 
Never was conqueror on his battle bier, 
By the veiled banner and the Tnuffled drum. 
And the proud drooping of the crested head, 
More nobly followed home. The last abode. 
The voiceless dwelling of the bard, is reached : 
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly 
With all th' imploring beauty of decay ; 
A stately couch 'midst ruins ! meet for him 
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king 
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword 
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant 
Over the honored grave! The grave! — O, 

say » 

Rather the shrine ! — an altar for the love. 
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths 
Of years unborn — a place where leaf and flower. 
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead. 
Shall be made holy things, where every weed 
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift 
From buried glory breathed. And now what 

strain. 
Making victorious melody ascend 
High above Sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb 
Where he that swayed the nations thus is laid — 
Die crowned of men ? 

A lowly, lowly song. 

Lowly and solemn be 
Thy children's cry to thee, 

Father divine ! 
A hymn of suppliant breath, 
Owning that life and death 

Alike are thine ! 

A spirit on its way. 
Sceptred the earth to sway, 

From thee was sent : 
Now call'st thou back thine own — 
Hence is that radiance flown — 

To earth but lent. 



Watching in breathless awe, 
The bright head bowed we sair, 

Beneath thy hand ! 
Filled by one hope, one fear. 
Now o'er a brother's bier 

Weeping we stand. 

How hath he passed ! — the lord 
Of each deep bosom chord, 

To meet thy sight, 
Unmantled and alone, 
On thy blessed mercy thrown, 

O Infinite ! 

So, from his harvest home, 
Must the tired peasant come ; 

So, in one trust. 
Leader and king must yield 
The naked soul revealed 

To thee. All-just ! 

The sword of many a fight — 
What then shall be its might ? 

The lofty lay 
That rushed on eagle wing — 
What shall its memory bring ? 

What hope, what stay ? 

O Father ! in that hour. 
When earth all succoring power 

Shall disavow ; 
When spear, and shield, and crown 
In faintness are cast down — 

Sustain us, Thou ! 

By Him who bowed to take 
The death cup for our sake, 

The thorn, the rod ; 
From whom the last dismay 
Was not to pass away — 

Aid us, O God ! 

Tremblers beside the grave. 
We call on thee to save. 

Father divine ! 
Hear, hear our suppliant breath ! 
Keep us, in life and death. 

Thine, only thine ! 



THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OP COKREGQIO'S. 

In the deep wilderness unseen she prayed. 
The daughter of Jerusalem ; alone 



With all the still, smail whispers of the night, 
And with the searching glances of the stars, 
And with her God, alone : she lifted up 
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her 

head. 
The dark leaves thrilled with prayer — the tear- 
ful prayer 
Of Tvoman's quenchless, yet repentant love. 

Father of spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to thee revealed. 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 
Before thy sight in solitude unsealed ! 

Hear, Father ! hear, and aid ! 
If I have loved too well, if I have shed. 
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head. 
Gifts on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid ; 

If I have sought to live 
But in one light, and made a human eye 
The lonely star of mine idolatry. 
Thou that art Love ! O, pity and forgive ! 

Chastened and schooled at last. 
No more, no more my struggling S])irit burns, 
But, fixed on thee, from that wild worship turns — 
Whai have I said ? — the deep dream is not past ! 

Yet hear ! — if still I love, 
U, stiU too fondly — if, forever seen. 
An earthly image comes my heart between 
And thy calm glory. Father ! throned above ; 

If still a voice is near, 
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) 
An earthly voice disquieting my soul 
With its deep music, too intensely dear ; 

Father ! draw to thee 

My lost affections back ! — the dreaming eyes 
Clear from their mist — sustain the heart that 

dies ; 
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 

1 must love on, God ! 

This bosom must love on ! — but let thy breath 
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not 

death, 
iSiaring it up to heaven — love's own abode ! 

Ages and ages past, the wilderness. 
With its dark cedars and the thrilling night. 
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds. 
That waft all sound, were conscious of those 
prayers. 



How many such hath woman's bursting Heart 
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, 
Like the dim night flower's odor, up to God ! 



PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE. 

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.' 

" Froni their apheres. 
The stars of human glory are cast down, 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms 
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed I 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own." —Wordsworth, 

Scene — Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during 
the Reigii of Terror. 

D'AuBiGNE, an aged Royalist — Blanche, hi$ 

daughter, a young girl. 

Blanche. What was your doom, my father 
In thine arms 
I lay unconsciously through that dread hoxir. 
Tell me the sentence ! Could our judges look, 
AMthovit relenting, on thy silvery hair ? 
Was there not mercy, father? Will thev not 
Restore us to our home ? 

D'Aubigni. Yes, my poor child ! 
They send us home. 

Blunche. O, shall we gaze again 
On the bright Loire ? Will the old hamlet spir% 
And the gray turret of our own chateau. 
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms i 
Will the kind voices of our villagers. 
The loving laughter in their children's eyes, 
Welcome us back at last ? But how is this ? 
Father ! thy glance is clouded — on thy brow 
There sits no joy ! 

D' Aubigni. Upon my brow, dear girl ! 
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn pee«« 
As may befit the Christian who receives. 
And recognizes in submissive awe. 
The summons of his God. 

Blanche. Thou dost not mean 

No, no ! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say 
They sent us home ? 

D'Aubigni. Where is the spirit's home ? 
O, most of all, in these dark, evil days. 
Where should it be — but in that world sereue 

1 The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sil- 
lery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria 
Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this littU 
scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, 
which they sang together in a low and restrained voice ev 
ery night 



S48 



SCENES AND H^MNS OF LIFE. 



Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's 

power, — 
Where, but m heaven ? 
Blanche. My father i 
D'Aubigni, We must die. 
We mnst look up to God, and calmly die. 
Come to my heart, and weep there ! For a 

while 
Give nature's passion way ; then brightly rise 
In the still courage of a woman's heart. 
Do I not know thee ? Do I ask too much 
From mine own noble Blanche ? 

Blanche, {falling on his bosom.) O, clasp me 

fast ! 
Thy trembling child ! Hide, hide me in thine 

arms — 
Father ! 

D'Aubigni. Alas ! my flower, thou'rt young 

to go — 
Young, and so fair ! Yet were it worse, me- 

thinks, 
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, 
The loyal hearted and the chivalrous, 
And they that loved their God, have all been 

swept, 
Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth 
Through the wide land was left inviolate. 
No altar holy ; therefore did they fall, 
Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steeped 
In noble blood ; the temples are gone down ; 
The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully 
Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who 

would live ? 
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee. 
To quit forever the dishonored soil. 
The burdened air ? Our God upon the cross — 
Our king upon the scaffold ' — let us think 
Of these — and fold endurance to our hearts. 
And bravely die ! 

Blanche. A dark and fearful way ! 
An evil doom for thy dear, honored head ! 
O thou, the kind, the gracious ! whom all eyes 
■Blessed as they looked upon ! Speak yet again — 
Say, will they part us ? 

D'Azibigni. No, my 'Jlanc^xe ; in death 
We shall not be divided. 

Blanche. Thanks to God ! 
He, by thy glance, will aid me — I shall see 

1 A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, 
and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive 
.amentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus ad- 
Iressed him : " My friend, whoever you may be, remem- 
ler that your God expired upon the cross — your king upon 
Ihe scaffold — and he who now speaks to you has had his 
limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a 
man." 



His light before me to the last. And when — 
O, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child !— 
When shall the hour befaU ? 

U Aubigni. O, swiftly now, 
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval. 
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that 

hour 
As yet I know not. Each low throbomg 

pulse 
Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
Eternity ! 

Blanche, [kneeling before hint.) My father ! lay 
thy hand 
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again 
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness — 
Thus breathing saintly courage through hex 

soul. 
Ere we are called. 

DAubigni. If I may speak through tears ! — 
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently. 
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on 

me 
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path, 
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, 
A stainless lily in my widowed house. 
There springing up, with soft light round thee 

shed. 
For immortality ! Meek child of God ! 
I bless thee — He will bless thee ! In hia 

love 
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world 
To thy Redeemer's breast ! And thou wilt die 
As thou hast lived, my duteous, holy Blanche ! 
In trusting and serene submissiveness. 
Humble, yet full of heaven. 

Blanche, {rising.) Now is tb»nr strength 
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise 
And say, " Thy will be done ! ' 

D'Aubign6, {pointing upwwdi.) Seest thou, 
my child ! 
Yon faint light in the west ? — the signal star 
Of our due vesper service, gxeaming in 
Through the close dungeon girating ! Mourn- 
fully 
It seems to quiver ; yet shall this night pass. 
This night alone, without the lifted voice 
Of adoration in our narrow cell. 
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith 
Silenced the strain ? No ! let it waft to heaven 
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality, 
In its dark hour once more ! And we vill 

sleep. 
Yes — calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. 
[They sing together 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 649 


prisoner's evening song. 


HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAIN 


We see no more in thy pure skies, 


EERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 


How soft, God ! the sunset dies ; 






" Thanks be to God for the mounting I " 


How every colored hill and wood 


Ho WITT'S "Book of the Seasom." 


Seems melting in the golden flood : 




Yet, by the precious memories won 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee 


From bright hours now forever gone, 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Father ! o'er all thy works, we know, 


Thou hast made thy children mighty 


Thou still art shedding beauty's glow ; 


By the touch of the mountain sod. 


Still touching every cloud and tree 


Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 


With glory, eloquent of thee ; 


Where the spoUer's foot ne'er trod ; 


Still feeding all thy flowers with light, 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Though man hath barred it from our sight. 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


We know thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, 




the All-just ! 


We are watchers of a beacon 


^d bless thee still with free and boundless 


Whose light must never die ; 


trust ! 


We are guardians of an altar 




'Midst the silence of the sky : 


We read no more, God ! thy ways 


The rocks yield founts of courage, 


On earth, in these wild, evil days. 


Struck forth as by thy rod ; 


The red sword in the oppressor's hand 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


[s ruler of the weeping land ; 


Our God, our fathers' God ' 


Fallen are the faithful and the pure, 




No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. 


For the dark, resounding caverns, 


Yet, by the deep voice from the past. 


Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 


Which tells us these things cannot last — 


For the strong pines of the forests. 


And by the hope which finds no ark 


That by thy breath are stirred ; 


Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark — 


For the storms, on whose free pinions 


We trust thee ! As the sailor knows 


Thy spirit walks abroad ; 


That in its place of bright repose 


For the strength of the hUls we bless thee 


His polestar burns, though mist and cloud 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


May veil it with a midnight shroud. 




We know thou reign'st, AU-holy One, All-just ! 


The royal eagle darteth 


^d bless thee still with love's own boundless 


On his quarry from the heights, 


' trust. 


And the stag that knows no master 




Seeks there his wild delights ; 


We feel no more that aid is nigh. 


But we, for thy communion, 


When our faint hearts within us die. 


Have sought the mountain sod ; 


We suffer — and we know our doom 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Must be one suff'ering till the tomb. 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 




When his last hour came darkly on ; 


The banner of the chieftain 


Bj' his dread cry, the air which rent 


Far, far below us waves ; 


In terror of abandonment ; 


The war horse of the spearman 


And by his parting word, which rose 


Cannot reach our lofty caves : 


Through faith victorious o'er all woes — 


Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 


We know that thou mayst wound, mayst 


Of freedom's last abode ; 


break 


For the strength of the hiUs we bless thee 


The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake ! 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn. 




In our deep need to thee we turn ! 


For the shadow of thy presence, 


To whom but thee ! All-merciful, AU-just ! 


Round our camp of rock outspread ; 


[s life, in death, we yield thee boundless 


For the stern defiles of battle, 


trust ! 

82 


Bearing record of our dead : 



660 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



For the snows and for the torrents, 
For the free hearts' burial sod ; 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
Our God, our fathers' God ! 



PEAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 

" The land shall never rue, 
80 England to herself do prove but true. " — Shaispeaee. 

Through evening's bright repose 
A voice of prayer arose, 

When the sea fight was done : 
The sons of England knelt, 
With hearts that now could melt. 
For on the wave her battle had been won. 

Round their tall ship, the main 
Heaved with a dark-red stain, 

Caught not from sunset's cloud ; 
While with the tide swept past 
Pennon and shivered mast. 
Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bowed. 

But free and fair on high, 
A native of the sky. 

Her streamer met the breeze ; 
It flowed o'er fearless men. 
Though, hushed and childlike then. 
Before their God they gathered on the seas. 

O, did not thoughts of home . 
O'er each bold spirit come. 

As from the land sweet gales ? 
In every word of prayer 
Had not some hearth a share. 
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales ? 

Yes ! bright, green spots that lay 
In beauty far away. 

Hearing no billow's roar. 
Safer from touch of spoil. 
For that day's fiery toil, 
Kose on high hearts, that now with love gushed 
o'er. 

A solemn scene and dread ! 
The victors and the dead, 

The breathless burning sky ! 
And, passing with the race 
Of waves that keep no trace, 
rhe wild, brief signs of human victory ! 



A stern, yet holy scene ! 
Billows, where strife hath been, 

Sinking to awful sleep ; 
And words, that breathe the sense 
Of God's omnipotence, 
Making a minster of that silent deep. 

Borne through such hours afar, 
Thy flag hath been a star 

Where eagle's wings near flew : 
England ! the unprofaned, 
Thou of the earth unstained, 
O, to the banner and the shrine be true ! 



THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. 

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY 

[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene ii 
founded are recorded in Game's Narrative of the Moravian 
Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic 
sketch.] 

" But by my wrongs and by my wrath, 
To-morrow Areouski's breath, 
That fires yon heaven with storms of death, 
Shall light me to the foe I " 

Indian Song in " Gertrude of Wyoming." 

Scene. — The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep 
woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, over- 
shadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herr- 
mann, the missionary, seated alone before the 
cabin. The hour is evening twilight. 

Herrmann, Was that the light from some lone 

swift canoe 
Shooting across the waters ? — No, a flash 
From the night's first, quick firefly, lost again 
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark 
Is on the wave ; no rustle of a breeze 
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange 

world, 
O, how mysterious, how eternal, seems 
The mighty melancholy of the woods ! 
The desert's own great spirit, infinite ! 
Little they know, in mine own fatherland. 
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst 
The wild Hartz mountains, or the sylvan glades 
Deep in the Odenwald — they little know 
Of what is solitude ! In hours like this. 
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage 

hearths 
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices^ 
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



6S1 



On the home path; while round his lowly 

porch, 
With eager eyes awaiting his return, 
The clustered faces of his children shine 
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond 

thoughts ! 
Molting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope 
By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God ! 
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee. 
Till all the hollow of these deep desires 
May with thyself be filled ! Be it e-^jug'^ 
At once to gladden and to solemnize 
My lonely life, if for thine altar here 
In this dread temple of the wilderness, 
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win 
The offering of one heart, one human heart, 
Bleeding, repenting, loving ! 

Hark ! a step. 
An Indian tread ! I know the stealthy sound — 
'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass 
Gliding so serpent-like. 

{He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior 
armed.') 
Enonio, is it thou ? I see thy form 
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine 

eye 
Discerns thy face. 

Enonio. My father speaks my name. 
Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase 

returned ? 
The nightfires lit ? Why is my son abroad ? 
Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler 

prey 
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave 
The lone path free. 

Herrmann. The forest way is long 
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee a 

while 
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak 
Of these things further. 

Enonio. Tell me not of rest ! 
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. 
I must begone. 

Herrmann, {solemnly.) No, warrior ! thou 

must stay ! 
The mighty One hath given me power to search 
Thy soul with piercing words — and thou must 

stay , 
And hear me, and give answer ! If thy heart 
Be grown thus restless, is it not because 
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up 
Some burning thought of ill ? 

Enonio, {toith sudden impetuosity. ) How should 

I rest ? 
Last night the spirit of my brother came, 



An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, 
And said, " Avenge me ! " In the clouds tixil 

morn 
I saw the frowning color of his blood — 
And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon 
Alone beside the sounding waterfall, 
And through its thunder music spake a tone — 
A low tone — piercing all the roll of waves — 
And said, " Avenge me!" Therefore have 1 

raised 
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again. 
That I may send the shadow from my couch, 
And take the strange sound from the cataract, 
And sleep once more. 

Herrmann. A better path, my son ! 
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep. 
My hand in peace can guide thee — e'en the wa^ 
Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou lovo 
That lost one well ? 

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up 
Even as twin roes 'midst the wilderness ? 
Unto the chase we journeyed in one path ; 
We stemmed the lake in one canoe ; we lay 
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung 
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand 
Was still beneath my head ; my brother's robe 
Covered my bosom from the chill night air — 
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love 
Until he turned him from his father's gods. 
And then my soul fell from him — then the grass 
Grew in the way between our parted homes ; 
And wheresoe'er I wandered, then it seemed 
That all the woods were silent. I went forth — 
I journeyed, with my lonely heart, afar, 
And so returned — and where was he ? The eartli 
Owned him no more. 

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, 
Hast turned thee from the idols of thy tribe, 
And, like thy brother, bowed the suppliant 

knee 
To the one God. 

Enonio. Yes ! I have learned to pray 
With my white father's words, yet all the mor« 
My heart, that shut against my brother's love, 
Hath been within me as an arrowy firo. 
Biuming my sleep away. In the night hush, 
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowi 

things 
Of the great forests, I have called aloud, 
«« Brother ! forgive, forgive ! " He answered 

not — 
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls. 
Cries but '^Avenge me!" — and I go forth now 
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes 
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore. 



r-^ 



652 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, 
" I have avenged thee ! " 

Herrmann. that human love 
Should be the root of this dread bitterness, 
Tin Heaven through aU the fevered being pours 
Transmuting balsam ! Stay, Enonio ! stay ! 
Thy brother calls thee not ! The spirit world 
Where the departed go sends back to earth 
No visitants for evil. 'Tis the might 
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief 
At work in thine own breast, which lends the 

voice 
Unto the forest and the cataract, 
The angry color to the clouds of morn. 
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son ! 
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch. 
When of the murderer's poisoned shaft he died, 
I knelt and prayed ; he named his Savior's name, 
Meekly, beseechingly ; he spoke of thee 
In pity and in love. 

Enotiio, {hurriedly.') Did he not say 
My arrow should avenge him ? 

Herrmann. His last words 
Were all forgiveness. 

Etionh. What ! and shall the man 
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery 
Walk fearless forth in joy ? 

Herrmann. Was he not once 
Thy brother's friend? 0, trust me, not in joy 
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love. 
Too late repentant of its heart estranged. 
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train 
Of sounds and shadows — and shall he escape ? 
Enonio, dream it not ! Our God, the All-just, 
Unto himself reserves this royalty — 
The secret chastening of the guilty heart, 
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies. 
Leave it with him ! Yet make it not thy hope ; 
For that strong heart of thine — O, listen yet — 
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish 
For death or torture to the guilty one. 
Ere it can sleep again. 

Enonio. My father speaks 
Of change, for man too mighty. 

Herrmann. I but speak 
Of that which hath been, and again must be, 
If thou wouldst join thy brother in the life 
Of the bright country where, I well believe. 
His soul rejoices. He had known such change : 
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named 
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart. 
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words 
Which, from the Savior's cross, went up to 

heaven — 
* Forgive themtfor they know not what they do ! 



Father, forgive ! " — And o'er the eternal bound* 
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled. 
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem, 
Hath to his Master passed. He waits thee there— 
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from th« 

grave. 
Immortal in its holiness. He calls 
His brother to the land of golden light 
And ever-living fountains — couldst thou hear 
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, 
" My brother ! O, be pure, be merciful ! 
That we may meet again." 

Enonio, (hesitating.) Can I return 
Unto my tribe, and unavenged .'' 

Herrmann. To Him, 
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps 
Have wandered far and long ! Return, my son, 
To thy Redeemer ! Died he not in love — 
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God — 
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies ? 
And we, dare we be ruthless ? By his aid 
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place 
'Midst the pure spirits. O, retrace the way 
Back to thy Savior ! he rejects no heart, 
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears 
Be o'er them showered. Ay ! weep, thou In- 
dian chief ! 
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold 
Thy proud lips working — weep, relieve thy soul ! 
Tears will not shame thy manhood in the hour 
Of its great conflict. 

Eno7iio, {giving up his weapons to Herbmann.) 
Father ! take the bow. 
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call 
Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell 
A little while, my father ! by thy side. 
That I may hear the blessfed words again — 
Like water brooks amidst the summer hills — 
From thy true lips flow forth ; for in my heart 
The music and the memory of their sound 
Too long have died away. 

Herrmann. O, welcome back. 
Friend, rescued one ! Yes, thou shalt be mj 

guest, 
And we will pray beneath my sycamore 
Together, morn and eve ; and I will spread 
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last — 
After the visiting of holy thoughts — 
With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes ! 
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back 
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again ! 
( They go into the cabin together. — Herrmann, 

lingering for a moment on the threshold, looki 

up to the starry shies.) 
Father ! that from amidst yon gloricus worlds 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



653 



Now look'st on us, thy children ! make this hour 
Blessed forever ! May it see the birth 
Of thine own image in the unfathomed deep 
Of an immortal soul — a thing to name 
With reverential thought, a solemn world ! 
To thee more precious than those thousand stars 
Burning on high in thy majestic heaven ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 

Fathek of heaven and earth ! 

I bless thee for the night. 

The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 

Of sound and hght ! 

Now, far in glade and dell, 

Flower cup, and bud, and bell 
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest ; 

The bee's long-murmuring toils are done, 

And I, the o'erwearied one, 

O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 
Bless thee, God ! Father of the oppressed ! 

With my last waking thought. 
In the still night ! 

Yes ! e'er I sink to rest. 

By the fire's dying light, 

Thou Lord of earth and heaven ! 

I bless thee, who hast given, 
dnto life's fainting travellers, the night — 

The soft, still, holy night. 



THE DAY OF FLOWERS. 
A mother's walk with her child. 

" One spirit — His 
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows — 
Rules universal nature. Not a flower 
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, 
Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues. 
And bathes their eyes with nectar. 
Happy who walks with him ! " — Cowpeb. 

Come to the woods, my boy ! 
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth. 
My happy child ! The spirit of bright hours 
Wooes us in every wind ; fresh wild leaf scents, 
From thickets, where the lonely stockdove broods, 
Enter our lattice ; fitful songs of joy 
Float in with each soft current of the air ; — 
And we will hear their summons ; we will give 
One day to flowers, and s mshins, and glad 
thoughts, 



And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth, 
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths ; whili 

she, 
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart 
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. 
Come to the woods, my boy ! 

What ! wouldst thou lead already to the path 
Along the copsewood brook ? Come, then ! in 

truth. 
Meet playmate for a child, a bless6d child, 
Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard 
Singing its melody of happiness 
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace 
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkhng life 
It fills the shadowy dingle ! — now the wing 
Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright 

spray 
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave ; 
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep. 
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam 
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings 
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide 
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light 
From burnished films ! And mark yon silvery 

line 
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung 
Across the narrow current, from the tuft 
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough ! 
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves. 
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale. 
Y'et breaking not — a bridge for fairy shapes. 
How delicate, how wondrous ! 

Yes, my boy I 
Well may we make the stream's bright, windirg 

vein 
Our woodland guide ; for He who made the stream 
Made it a clew to haunts of loveliness, 
Forever deepening. O, forget him not, 
Dear child ! That airy gladness which thou 

feel'st 
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly. 
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less 
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, 
Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all 
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones 
AVith summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, 
My merry wanderer ! — let us rest a while 
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung 
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast, 
The soft red of the flowering willow herb 
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not 
E'en melting to a more transparent glow 
In that pure glass .' O, beautiful are streams ! 
And, through all ages, hvman hearts have loved 



654 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Tlieir music, still accordant with each mood 
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown 
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace 
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still 
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount 
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take 
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which 

blessed 
The river deities or fountain nymphs, 
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade. 
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme, 
The all-sustaining, ever-present God, 
Who dowered the soul with immortality, 
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth 
Its fleeting passage ; therefore let us greet 
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from 

Him, 
Each bird note, quivering 'midst light summer 

leaves, 
And every rich celestial tint unnamed, 
Wherewith, transpierced, the clouds of morn 

and eve 
Kindle and melt away ! 

And now, in love, 
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend 
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers 
Around the ruined mansion. Thou, my boy ! 
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn 
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee 
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought — 
No coloring from the past. This way our path 
Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly 

shoots 
The dragon fly along the sunbeam's line, 
Crossing the leafy gloom ! How full of life. 
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings. 
Is all the murmuring shade ! and thine, O thine ! 
Of all the brightest and the happiest here. 
My bless6d child ! my gift of God ! that mak'st 
My heart o'erflow with summer ! 

Hast thou twined 
Thy wreath so soon ! yet will we loiter not, 
Though here the bluebell wave, and gorgeously 
Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed 

oak 
The heath flower spread its purple. We must 

leave 
The copse, and through yon broken avenue, 
Shadowed by drooping walnut foliage, reach 
The ruin's glade. 

And lo ! before us, fair 
yet desolate, amidst the golden day, 
It stands, that house of silence ! wedded now 
To verdant Nature by the o'ermantling growth 
Of leaf »nd *sndril, which fond woman's hands 



Once loved to train. How the rich wall flowei 

scent 
From every niche and mossy cornice floats, 
Embalming its decay ! The bee aloue 
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no 

more 
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, 
Watching some homeward footstep. See ! un- 
bound 
From the old fretted stonework, what thick 

wreaths 
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, 
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and 

load 
The air with mournful fragrance — for it speaks 
Of life gone hence ; and the faint, southern 

breath 
Of myrtle leaves, from yon forsaken porch. 
Startles the soul with sweetness ! Yet rich 

knots 
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self sown 
Through all the sunny hoUow, spread around 
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, 
Undimmed by human change. How kindly 

here. 
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent ! 
And, under arches of wild eglantine. 
Drooping from this taU elm, how strangely 

seems 
The frail gum cistus o'er the turf to snow 
Its pearly flower leaves down ' Go, happy boy ! 
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets ; 
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial stone. 
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned. 
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave 

around 
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass 
Bedded like jewels. 

He hath bounded on, 
Wild with delight ! — the crimson on his cheek 
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies 
In this deep-hearted rose cup ! Bright mosa 

rose ! 
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree ! 
Once thou wert cherished ! and, by human love, 
Through many a summer duly visited 
For thy bloom offerings, which o'er festal board 
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch 
Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed 
A joy, now lost. 

Yet shall there still be joy, 
Where God hath poured forth beauty, and fh.« 

voice 
Of human love shall still be heard in praise 
Over his glorious gifts ! O Father ! Lord ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



6sa 



rhe All-beneficent ! I bless thy name, 

rhat thou hast mantled the green earth with 

floAvers, 
Linking our hearts to nature ' By the love 
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first 
Into her deep recesses are beguiled — 
Her minster cells — dark glen and forest bower, 
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, 
Amidst the low, religious whisperings 
And shivery leaf sounds of the solitude. 
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers. 
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares. 
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain 

streams, 
That sing of thee ! back to free childhood's 

lieart, 
J^'regh with the dews of tenderness ! Thou 

bidd'st 
The lilies of the field with placid smile 
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse 
Throigh his worn soul a more unworldly life, 
With their soft, holy b:.eath. Thou hast not left 
His purer nature, with its fine desires, 
Uncared for in this universe of thine ! 
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 
Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams 
With spiritual light, and made a source 
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint 

age 
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss : the old man's 

eye 
falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul 
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully 
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs 
From dust to splendor ; as the mortal seed 
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up 
To put on glory, to be girt with power. 
And filled with immortality. Receive 
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish 

boons, 
And, most of all, their heavenward influences, 
Thou that gav'st us flowers ! 

Return, my boy ! — 
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return ! 
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touched 
And glorified the ruin ! — glowworm light 
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach 
Dur home again. Come ! with thy last sweet 

prayer 
At thy blessed mother's knee, to-night shall 

thanks 
Ur.to our Father in his heaven arise, 
For (ill the gladness, all the beauty shed 
O'er one rich dav of 9.0A\ers. 



HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSE 
HOLD ON HIS RETURN, 

IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

Joy ! the lost one is restored ! 
Sunshine comes to hearth and board. 
From the far-off countries old 
Of the diamond and red gold ; 
From the dusky archer bands, 
Roamers of the fiery sands ; 
From the desert winds, whose breath 
Smites with sudden, silent death ; 
He hath reached his home again. 

Where we sing 
In thy praise a fervent strain, 

God, our King ! 

Mightiest ! unto thee he turned 
When the noonday fiercest burned ; 
When the fountain springs were far 
And the sounds of Arab war 
SM'elled upon the sultry blast, 
And the sandy columns past. 
Unto thee he cried ; and thoii, 
Merciful ! didst hear his vow I 
Therefore unto thee again 

Joy shall sing 
Many a sweet and thankful strain. 

God, our King ! 

Thou wert with him on the main, 
And the snowy mountain chain. 
And the rivers dark and wide. 
Which through Indian forests glide : 
Thou didst guard him from the wrath 
Of the lion in his path, 
And the arrows on the breeze, 
And the dropping poison trees. 
Therefore from our household train 

Oft shall spring 
Unto thee a blessing strain, 

God, our King ! 

Thou to his lone, watching wife 
Hast brought back the light of life ! 
Thou hast spared his loving child 
Home to greet him from the wild. 
Though the suns of Eastern skies 
On his cheek have set their dyes, 
Though long toils and sleepless cares 
On his brow have blanched the hairs, 
Yet the night of fear is flown — 
He is living, and our own ! 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hans his mantle and his sword. 



556 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



With the armor, on the wall — 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to thee th' exulting strain, 

God, our liing ! 



THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK. 

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter 
Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.] 

" Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
Of fate I while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, O, think — 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 
And friend to more than human friendship just. 
O, by that retrospect of happiness, 
And by the hope of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust." 

Campbell. 

The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens 
upon a Landscape at sunset. 

Eugene, Teresa. 

Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, 

beloved ! 
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in vaj heart, 
Are clear and still once more ! Wilt thou look 

forth ? 
Now, while the sunset with low streaming 

light - 
The light thou lovest — hath made the elm- wood 

stems 
All burning bronze, the river molten gold ! 
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet 
The rich air filled with wandering scents and 

sounds ? 
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more 
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest 
With our own evening hymn ? 
Eugene. Not now, dear love ! 
My soul is wakeful — lingering to look forth. 
Not on the sun, but thee ! Doth the light sleep 
On the stream tenderlj' ? and are the stems 
Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy. 
So richly changed ? and is the sweetbrier scent 
Floating around ? But I have said farewell, 
Farewell to earth, Teresa ! — not to thee ; 
Nor yet to our deep love — nor yet a while 
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows 
Back on my soul in mastery. One last work ! 
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, 
'Jlinging affections, and undying hopes, 
Idl, all in that memorial \ 



Teresa. O, what dream 
Is this, mine own Eugene ? Waste thou not thru 
Thy scarce-returning strength 5 keep thy ricl 

thoughts 
For happier days — they will not melt away 
Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend \ 
Dearest of friends ! thou canst win back at will 
The glorious visions. 

Eugene. Yes ! the unseen land 
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice 
To call me hence. O, be thou not deceived ! 
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa ! 
I must, must leave thee ! Yet be strong, my 

love ! 
As thou hast still been gentle. 

Teresa. O Eugene ! 
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene ! 
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all — 
My only sunshine ? How can I bear on ? 
How can we part ? — we that have loved so well, 
AVith clasping spirits linked so long by grief, 
By tears, by prayer. 

Eugene. E'en therefore we can part, 
With an immortal trust, that such high love 
Is not of things to perish. 

Let me leave 
One record still of its ethereal flame 
Brightening through death's cold shadow. Once 

again. 
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast, 
And eyes half veiled, in thine own soul absorbed 
As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep ; 
And I will give the bending, flower-like grace 
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned 
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile 
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast 
Their delicate earthly being. There ! thy head 
Bowed down with beauty, and with tenderness, 
And lowly thought — e'en thus — my own Te. 

res a ! 
O, the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom, 
That once around thee hung, have melted now 
Into more solemn light — but holier far. 
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes, 
Than all that summer flush I For by my couch, 
In patient and serene devotedness, 
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smilea 
ITiine offering unto me. O, I may give 
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow. 
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye. 
Unto the canvas ; 1 may catch the flow 
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify, 
With a soft halo, what is imaged thus — 
But how much rests unbreathed, my faithfaJ 
one I 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE 



85 



What tliou hast been to me ! This bitter world ! 
This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice 
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back 
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here 
A little while — how have I turned away 
From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart 
Found ever the sweet fountain of response 
To quench my thirst for home ! 

The dear work grows 
Beneath my hand — the last ! 

Teresa, {^falling on his neck in tears.) 
Eugene ! Eugene ! 

Break not my heart with thine excess of love ! — 
O, must I lose thee — thou that hast been still 
The tenderest — best ! 

Eugene, Weep, weep not thus, beloved ! 
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power 
Of soothing to the last ! Mine own Teresa ! 
Talte strength from strong affection ! Let our 

souls. 
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain 
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon — 
Our perfect love ! O, blessed have we been 
In that high gift ! thousands o'er earth may pass, 
With hearts unfreshened by the heavenly 

dew. 
Which hath kept ours from withering. Kneel, 

true wife ! 
And lay thy hands in mine. 

(SAe kneela beside the couch — he prays.) 

O, thus receive 
Thy children's thanks. Creator ! for the love 
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly 

woes. 
To spread heaven's peace around them — which 

hath bound 
Their spirits to each other and to thee. 
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath 

breathed, 
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gra- 
cious God ! 
For all its treasured memories, tender cares, 
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, 

unchanged 
Through tears and joy! Father ! most of all, 
We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust. 
Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those 
That love in thee, of union, in thy sight 
And in thy heavens, immortal ! Hear our prayer ! 
Take home our fond affections, purified 
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain : 
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell, 
Father I where all things that are lovely meet, 
And all things that are pure — forevermore 
With thee and thine ! 

83 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

Blessings, O Father ! shower — 
Father of mercies ! round his precious l-.ead ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved — 
Fame, fortune, power : O, be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at thy will ! 
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove pinion stiU ! 

Let such a sense of thee. 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love. 
His bosom guest inalienably be, 

That, wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimmed ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of 
dreams. 

Remembered faintly, gleams — 
Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown ' 

So let him walk with thee. 

Made by thy Spirit free ; 
And when thou eall'st him from his mortal place, 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given. 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part. 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering hear*. 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Savior's face ! 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICK BED 
OF A CHILD. 

Savior, that of woman born, 
Mother sorrow didst not scorn — 
Thou, with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love — 
Hear and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious child, 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play. 
And its bright thoughts far away — 
Savior, aid ! 



C«8 



SONNETS. 



Pain sits heavy on his brow, 
E'en though slumber seal it now ; 
Round his lip is quivering strife, 
In his hand unquiet life — 
Aid O, aid ! 

Savioi ! loose the burning chain 
From his fevered heart and brain ; 
Give, O, give his young soul back 
Into its own cloudless track ! 
Hear and aid ! 

Thou that saidst, " Awake ! arise ! " 
E'en when death had quenched the eyes- 
In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 
When o'erwearied hope is dying, 
Hear and aid ! 

Yet, O, make him thine, all thine. 
Savior ! whether Death's or mine ! 
Yet, O, pour on human love 
Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 
Hear and aid ! 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 

THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTOll 

Night sinks on the wave. 

Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea birds to theii cave 

Through the gloom are flying. 
O, should storms come sweeping, 
Thou, in heaven unsleeping, 
O'er thy children vigil keeping, 
Hear, hear, and save ! 



Stars look o'er the sea. 

Few, and sad, and shrouded ; 

Faith our light must be 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling, 

W^ind and billow stilling. 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling — 
Power dwells with thee ! 



SONNETS. 



FEMALE CHAEACTERS OF 
SCRIPTURE. 

" Your tents are desolate ; your stately steps 
Of all their choral dances have not left 
One trace beside the fountains ; your full cup 
Of gladness and of trembling each alike 
Is broken. Yet, amidst undying things. 
The mind etill keeps your loveliness, and still 
All the fresh glories of the early world 
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls, 
Never to change 1 " 

INVOCATION. 

A 8 the tii'ed voyager on stormy seas 

Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, 
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, 

Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar ; 

So, from the depth of days, Trhen earth yet 
wore 
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, 

I call you, gracious forms ! O, come ! restore 
A while that holy freshness, and renew 
liife's morning dreams. Come with the voice, 
the IjTe, 



Daughters of Judah ! with the timbrel rise I 
Ye of the dark, prophetic. Eastern eyes, 
Imperial in their visionary fire ; 
O, steep my soul in that old, glorious time. 
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of 
your clime ! 



INVOCATION CONTINUED. 

And come, ye faithful ! round Messiah seen, 

With a soft harmony of tears and light 
Streaming through all yoxir spiritual mien — 
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright. 
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce 
their slight ' 
Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued 
All haughty dreams of power had winged thcii 
flight, 
And left high place for martyr fortitude, 
True faith, long-suff"ering love. Come to me 
come ! ... 



And as the seas, beneath your Master's tread, 
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread 
liike the clear pavement of his heavenly home ; 
So, in your presence, let the soul's great deep 
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. 



THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 

A. BOjSii tot Israel's God ! Spear, crest, and helm 

Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, 
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm 

Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee. 
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free. 

Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the 
strain. 
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee 

Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. 
A song for God's own victory ! O, thy lays, 

Bright poesy ! were holy in their birth : 
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise, 

In the bewildering melodies of earth ! 
Return from troubling, bitter founts — return 
Back to the lifesprings of thy native urn ! 



RUTH. 

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn. 
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fanned, 

StUl brings me back thine image — O forlorn. 
Yet not forsaken Ruth ! I see thee stand 
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest 
band — 

Lone, as a wood bird on the ocean's foam 
Fallen in its weariness. Thy fatherland 

Smiles far away ! yet to the sense of home — 

That finest, purest, which can recognize 
Home in affection's glance — forever true 

Beats thy calm heart ; and if thy gentle eyes 
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue 

Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone, 

" Thy people and thy God shall be mine own ! " 



THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. 

" And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread 
It for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harv'est until water 
Iropped upon them out of heaven ; and suffered neither the birds 
•f the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
Bight."— 2 Sam. xxi. 10. 

Who watches on the mountain with the dead, 
Alone before the awfulness of night ? — 



A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might r 
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread ? 
No — a lorn woman ! On her drooping head, 

Onoe proiidly graceful, heavy beats the rain ; 

She recks not — living for the unburied slain, 
Only to scare the vulture from their bed. 
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept 
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath 
wept : 

O, surely some bright Presence from above 
On those Avild rocks the lonely one must aid ! 
E'en so ; a strengthener through all storm and 
shade, 

Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest Love ! 



THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE 
WOMAN. 

" And she answered, 1 dwell among mine own people." 

2 Kings iv. 13. 

" I DWELL among mine own." O, happy thou ! 

Not for the sunny clusters of the vine, 
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow. 
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line 
Of streams, that make the green land wher6 
they shine 
Laugh to the light of waters — not for these, 
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees. 

Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee ant 
thine — 
O, not for these I call thee richly blest. 
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast, 
Where that sweet depth of still contentment 
lies; 
And for thy holy, household love, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things. 
Weaving- from each some link for home's dear 
charities. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest of women, and most glorified ! 

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, 
A brightness round thee grew — and by thy side, 

Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, 

Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From hei 
throne 
A queen had risen with more imperial eye, 
A stately prophetess of victory 

From her proud lyre had struck a tempest'* 
tone. 



For such high tidings as to thee were brought, 
Chosen of Heaven ! that hour : but thou, O 
thou, 

E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught, 
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow. 

And take to thy meek breast th' all- holy word, 

And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. 



THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN. 

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain snow, 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long 
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow. 
And thy calm spirit lightened into song. 
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong 
Flowed the majestic joy of tuneful words, 
Which living harps the choirs of heaven 
among 
Might well have linked with their divinest 

chords. 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast, 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music 
passed. 
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh ; 
While thine, O childlike Virgin ! through all 

time 
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime. 
Being of God, and therefore not to die. 



THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S 
FEET. 

There was a moumfulness in angel eyes. 

That saw thee, woman ! bright in this world's 
train, 
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, 

Thjself the idol of the enchanted strain. 
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, 
When one by one the rose leaves had been torn ; 
When thy heart's core had quivered to the 
pain 
Through every life nerve sent by arrowy scorn ; 
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odors 
forth 
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, 
And showering teardrop, of yet richer worth 

Than all those costly balms of Araby ; 
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven. 
For thee, the child won back, the penitent for- 
given ! 



MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. 

O, BLESSED beyond all daughters of the earth ! 

What were the Orient's thrones to that lo^ 
seat 
Where thy hushed spirit drew celestial birth, 

Mary ! meek listener at the Savior's feet ? 

No feverish cares to that divine retreat 
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought, 
- But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to mee 
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought 
O for the holy quiet of thy breast, 

'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps 

flying. 
Thou, whose calm soul was like a wellspring. 

lying 
So deep and still in its transparent rest, 
That, e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, 
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirroi 

fills. 



fl. 



THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER 
THE DEATH OF LAZARUS. 

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead ! 

Was in your bosoms — thou, whose steps, 
made fleet 
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, 

Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet ; 

And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat 
Didst wait his summons, then with reverent 
love 

Fall weeping at the blessed Delivi-rer's feet. 
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could 

move. 
And which to Him, the All-seeing and All-just, 
Was loveliest — that quick zeal, or lowly trust \ 
O, question not, and let no law be given 

To those unveilings of its deepest shrine. 

By the wrung spirit made in outward sign : 
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven. 



THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. 

" Verily I say unto you, wheresoever thi« gospel shall be preached 
in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hatb 
done be told for a memorial of her." — Matthew xxvi. 13. Se« 
also John xii. 3. 

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall, 
And on the waters of the far raid sea j 



SONNETS. 



Mt 



Ind where the mighty mountain shadows fall, 
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee : 
Where'er, beneath some Oriental tree, 

rhe Christian traveller rests — where'er the 
child 
Looks upward from the English mother's 
knee, 

With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild, 

There art thou known — where'er the book of 
light 

Bears hope and healing, theie, beyond all blight. 
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above. 

0, say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, 

Mary ! to that pure, silent place of fame ? 
One lowly offering of exceeding love. 



IHE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE 

CROSS. 

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose 
gleam 
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast, 
iSueh by the cross doth your bright lingering 
seem. 
Daughters of Zion ! faithful to the last ! 
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth 
cast 
By the death cloud within the Savior's eye, 
E'en till away the heavenly spirit passed, 
Stood in the shadow of his agony. 
O blessed faith ! a guiding lamp, that hour 
Was lit for woman's heart ! To her, whose 
dower 
Is aU of love and suffering from her birth. 
Still hath your act a voice — through fear, 

through strife. 
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life 
To that which her deep soul hath proved of 
hoKest worth. 



MARY MAGDALENE AT THE 
SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper ! to thee how bright a morn was given 

After thy long, long vigil of despair. 
When that high voice which burial rocks had 
riven 

Thrilled with immortal tones the sUent air ! 

Never did clarion's royal blast declare 
Buch tale of victory to a breathless crowd 

As the deep sweetness of 0}ie word could bear 



Into thy heart of hearts, O woman ! bowed 
By strong affection's anguish ! one low word — 
" Marij ! " and all the triumph wrung from 

death 
Was thus revealed ; and thou, that so hadst 

erred, 
So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith 
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering 

Son, 
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had 

won ! 



MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS 
OF THE RESURRECTION. 

Then was a task of glory all thine own, 

Nobler than e'er the still, small voice assigned 
To lips in awful music making known 

The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind, 
" Christ is arisen ! " — by thee, to wake man 
kind. 
First from the sepulchre those words were 
brought ! 
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind 
First on its way, with those high tidings 

fraught — 
" Christ is arisen I " Thou, thou, the sin in 

thralled ! 
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransomed one, 
wert called 
In human hearts to give that rapture birth : 
O, raised from shame to brightness! there doth lie 
The tenderest meaning of His ministry, 

Whose undespairing love still owned the 
spirit's worth. 



SONNETS, 
DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL, 

THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the harp of poesj'- regain 

That old victorious tone of prophet years — 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, 

And all the hovering shadows of the bram .'' 

Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall. 
Sank on the soul. O, who may now recall 

The mighty music's consecrated reign ? 

Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 



«62 



SONNETS. 



A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between, 

So let thy presence brood, though now unseen. 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is 

strung, 
Feeling and Thought ! till the rekindled chords 
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal 
words. 



TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their 
shrine, 
Cling reverently ! Of anxious looks beguiled. 
My mother's eyes upon thy page divine 

Each day were bent — her accents, gravely 

mild, 
Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy 
child. 
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring flowers 
wild. 
Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn word, 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard. 

Fall on thy wakened spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost — for which, in darker years, 
book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears. 
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. 

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE. 

Under a palm tree, by the green, old Nile, 

Lulled on his mother's breast, the fair child 
lies. 
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile 

Brooding above the slumber of his e}'es ; 
While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 

Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, 
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise. 

Regal and still as everlasting things. 
Vain pomps ! from him, with that pure, flowery 
cheek. 

Soft shadowed by his mother's drooping head, 
A. new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek. 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall 
spread ; 
\nd bid all earthlj grandeurs cast the crown, 
licfore the suff'ering and the lowly, down. 



PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST 
WITH FLOWERS. 

All the bright hues from Eastern garlandi 
glowing, 
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread- 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 
Roses, deep filled with rich midsummer's red 
Circle his hands : but, in his grave, sweet eye, 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesj 

Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with 

flowers ; 
To Him who poured forth blessings in soft 
showers 
O'er aU her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And ice repine, for whom that cup he took. 
O'er blooms that mocked our hope, o'er idols 
that forsook ! 



ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF 
CHRIST. 

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. 

I MET that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a stilled surpriiw, 

The pride of life, before those holy eyes. 
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away. 
Abashed to mute confession of a sway 

Awful, though meek. And now that, from 
tlie strings 

Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty winj^a 
Have struck forth tones which then unwakene^ 

lay; 
Now that, around the deep life of my mind, 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined. 

Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by ; 
But more divinely sweet, and speaking 7iow 
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, hu- 
manity 1 



THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children! hallowed from thai 

hour 
By your Lord's blessing. Surely thence- a 

shower 



ONNETS. 



66« 



Of heavcnjy beauty, a transmitted liglit, 
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 

Through all the after years, which saw ye 
move 
Lowly, j'et still majestic, in the might, 

The conscious glory, of the Savior's love ! 
And honored be all childhood, for the sake 

Of that higii love ! Let reverential care 
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake. 

And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the 

sign 
Of claims upon a heritage divine. 



MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

" He went up to a mountain apart to pray." 

A. OHiLD 'midst ancient mountains I have stood, 

Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 
On high. The spirit of the solitude 

Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, 
Though then I prayed not ; but deep thoughts 
have pressed 

Into my being since it breathed that air, ' 
Nor could 1 7tow one moment live the guest 

Of such dread scenes, without t,he springs of 
prayer 
O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise 
Like them in pure communion with the skies, 
Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erburdened Son of man have 
felt, 

When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt. 
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

" Consider the lilies of the field." 

Flowees ! when the Savior's calm, benignant 
eye 

Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 

That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew, 
Sternal, universal, as the sky — 
Then, in the bosom of your purity, 

A voice he set, as in a temple shrine, 
rhat life s quick travellers ne'ei might pass you 
by 

Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine. 
&.nd though too oft its low, celestial sound 
8y the harsh notes of work-day Care is drowned, 



And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste, 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushes 
hour. 

Than yours, ye lilies ! chosen thus and f »-af.«(i ■ 



THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

"And behold the birds of the air." 

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air. 

Were charged that hour, on missionary wing 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear. 

Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of 
spring. 
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing ! 

And call us to your echoing woods away 
From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awakened mind 
^Yllile sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, nc 
strife. 

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously r* 
signed. 



THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

" And he that was dead sat up and began to speak." 

H^ that was dead rose up and spoke — He spoke ! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown ? 
Those words, which first the bier's dread silenc* 
broke. 
Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone, 

The solemn halls of consciousness oi sleep. 
For man uncurtained by that spirit lone, 

Back from their portal summoned o'er th« 

deep? 
Be hushed, my soul ! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn : thy Lord called back the voice de- 
parted 
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak 
hearted. 
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
0, take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not queatton 
death ! 



364 



SONNETS. 



THE OLIVE TREE. 

The palm -- the vine — the cedar — each hath 
power 

To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by ; 
Ajid each quick glistening of the laurel bovver 

Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 

But thou, pale olive ! in thy branches lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old 

Might e'er enshrine : I could not hear thee sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim, silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn of that 
scene 

When, in the garden, the Redeemer prayed — 
When pale stars looked upon his fainting head. 
And angels, ministering in silent dread. 

Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling 
shade. 



THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 
Felt shudderiugly at noon : the land had 

driven 

A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven — 

A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung, 

All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish 

wrung. 

From the sharp cross th' enlightened spirit 

fled, 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 
By the great shadow of that death was flung. 
Savior ! O Atoner ! — thou that fain 
Wouldst make thy temple in each human 
heart, 
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign ; 

Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart. 
Chased thence by guUt ! O, turn not Thou 

away. 
The bright and Morning Star, my Guide to per- 
fect day ! 



PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

" God is a spirit" 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 

Air, ocean, central depths by man untried. 

Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 

All place, all time ! The silence of the hills 

Breathes veneration — founts and choral rills 

Of tVee are murmuring — to its inmost glade 



The living forest with thy whisper thrills, _, 
And there is holiness in every shade. 

Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes. 

Which, severed from all sound of earth's unrest. 
Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strains 

Rise heavenward. Ne'er may rook or cave pos- 
sess 

Their claim on human hearts to solemn tender- 
ness. 



OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 

In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 

Caressingly, about the holy ground. 

And warbled, with a never-dying tone. 

Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 

Seemed, from that ivied porch, that solemn 

gleam 
Of tower and cross, pele quivering on tkf 
stream. 
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown — 
And something yet more deep. The air was 

fraught 
With noble memories, whispering many a 
thought 
Of England's fathers : loftily serene, 
They that had toiled, watched, struggled, to se- 
cure. 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure. 
Reigned there, the o'ershadowing spirit of the 
scene. 



A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain glen ! Old, mossy trees 

Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane ; 
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, 

Filling the hollows with its anthem tone. 

There meets the voice of psalms ! Yet nol 
alone 
For memories lulling to the heart as these, 

I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, gray house of 



prayer 



But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill cabins and the ocean shore. 

1 Fawsley Park, near Daventry. 

2 That of Aber, near Bangor 



O, may the fisher and the mountaineer 
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 
Within thy lowly walls, forever more. 



* LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

(Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of 
the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his 
children, for their perusal after his decease, atTectingly com- 
memorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing 
the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, 
and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger ] 

A. FEARLESS joumeyer o'er the mountain snow 

"Wert thou, Louise ! The sun's decaying light 
Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow, 

Reddened thy steep, wild way: the starry 
night 

Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, 
fiercing some dark ravine : and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock recesses, well 

Thy gentle presence, which hath made them 
bright 

Oft in mid storms — O, not with beauty's eye, 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning ; 



No ! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was love — the mountain deserts turn- 
ing 
To bless6d realms, where stream and rock rejoice 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 



TO THE SAME. 

Poa thou, a holy shepherdess and Idnd, 

Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 

A wUd, neglected flock ! to seek, and find. 

And meekly win ! there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thine. 
Daughter of Christ ! but His, whose love di- 
vine 

Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined. 

A burning hght ! O, beautiful, in truth. 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 

Who bear His tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy journeyings ; and tht 
close 

Of that long path. Heaven's own bright Sabbatk 
rest. 

Must wait thee, wanderer ! on thy Savior'sbreait 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



l-HE TWO MONUMENTS.' 

" O. biessed are they who live and die like ' him,' 
1/Oved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned I " 

WOKDSWOBTH. 

Banners hung drooping from on high 

In a dim cathedral's nave. 
Making a gorgeous canopy 

O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath. 
With helm and crest arrayed. 

As on his battle bed of death, 
Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet lingered in his eye, 
Ere by tho dark night sealed ; 

1 Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer's " Notes and 
Keflections during a Ramble in Germany 
84 



And his head was pillowed haughtiiv 
On standard and on shield. 

And shadowing that proud trophy pile. 
With the glory of his wing. 

An eagle sat — yet seemed the while 
Panting through heaven to spring 

He sat upon a shivered lance, 
There by the sculptor bound ; 

But in the light of his lifted glance 
Was that which scorned the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like hues, 
From a storied window poured, 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his sword. 

A flood of hues — but one rich dye 
O'er all supremely spread. 



468 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


"With a purple robe of royalty 




Mantling the mighty dead. 


THE COTTAGE GIRL. 




A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play, 


Meet was that robe for him -whose name 


Her fair face laughing at the sunny day ; 


Wm a trumpet note in war, 


A gush of waters tremulously bright, 


His pathway still the march of fame, 


Kindling the air to gladness with their light ; 


His eye the battle star. 


And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, 




Darkening the turf; and, shadowed o'er by 


But faintly, tenderly -was thro-wn. 


these, 


From the colored light, one ray. 


A low, dim, woodland cottage — this was all ! 


Where a low and pale memorial stone 


What had the scene for memory to recall 


By the couch of glory lay. 


With a fond look of love ? What secret spell 




With the heart's pictures made its image dwell } 


Few were the fond words chiselled there, 




Mourning for parted worth ; 


What but the spirit of the joyous chUd, 


But the very heart of love and prayer 


That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure 


Had given their sweetness forth. 


smiled. 




Casting upon the common things of earth 


They spoke of one whose life had been 


A brightness, bom and gone with infant mirth ! 


As a hidden streamlet's course. 




Bearing on health and joy unseen 




From its clear mountain source ; 






THE BATTLE FIELD. 


Whose young, pure memory, lying deep 




'Midst rock, and wood, and hUl, 


I LOOKED on the field where the battle was 


Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,' 


spread. 


A soft light, meek and still ; 


When thousands stood forth in their glancing 




array; 


Whose gentle voice, too early called 


And the beam from the steel of the valiant was 


Unto Music's land away, 


shed 


Had won for God the earth's, inthralled 


Through the dun-roUing clouds that o'er- 


By words of silvery sway. 


shadowed the fray. 


These were his -victories — yet, enrolled 


I saw the dark forest of lances appear, 


In no high song of fame. 


As the ears of the harvest unnumbered they 


The pastor of the mountain fold 


stood ; 


Left but to Heaven his name. 


I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, 




Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of 


To Heaven, and to the peasant's hearth, 


the wood. 


A bless6d ho'isehold sound ; 




And finding lo-wly love on earth, 


Afar the harsh notes of the war drum were 


Enough enough he found ! 


rolled, 




Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair ; 


Bright and more bright before me gleamed 


On high to -"he gust stream'd the banner's red 


That sainted image still. 


fold, 


Till one sweet moonlight memory seemed 


O'er ine death-close of hate, and the scowl of 


The regal fane to fill. 


despair. 


0, how my silent spirit turned 


I looked on the field of contention again, 


From those proud trophies nigh ! 


When the sabre was sheathed and the tempest 


How my full heart within me burned 


had passed ; 


Like Him to live and die ! 


The wild weed and thistle grew rank on th« 




plain, 


1 * Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie." 


And the fern softly sighed in the low, wailing 


WOBDIWOBTH. 


blast. 



Uniaoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, 
Aad bright shone the stai'S through the sky's 

deej sned bl'ie ; 
And sweetly tlie song of the night bird arose, 
Where the foxglove lay gemmed with its pearl- 
drops of dew. 

but wl". ii'C swept the ranks of that dark, frown- 
ing host, 

A.S the ocean in might, as the storm cloud in 
speed ? 

Where now are the thunders of victory's boast — 

The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of 
the steed ? 

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering 

stone, 
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their 

pride ; 
One grass- covered mound told the traveller 

alone 
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, 

and died ! 

J Glory ! behold thy famed guerdon's extent : 

For this, toil thy slaves through their earth- 
wasting lot — 

A name like the mist, when the night beams 
are spent ; 

A grave with its tenants Tinwept and forgot ! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 

" Can guilt or mlBery ever enter here ? 
Ah, no 1 the spirit of domestic peace, 
Thougli calm and gentle as the brooding dove, 
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, 
Guards, powerful as tlie sword of cherubim, 
The hallowed porch. She hath a heavenly smile, 
That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, 
And wins liim o'er to virtue." — Wilson. 

My father's house once more, 
In its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, 

Broods, never marked before ! 

Is it the brooding night, 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnized it seems. 
And stilled, and darkened in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 



And this high elm, where last 
I stood and lingered — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deemed not tha": it caa 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's plaje WM 

there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved hli 
hair ! 
Now those gray locks arc gone 1 

My soul grows faint with fear ! 
Even as if angel steps had marked the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithlesa 

hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn, gladdening light ! 

No outward thing is changed : 
Only the joy of purity is fled. 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear' St their tones with dread. 

Therefore the calm abode 
By thy dark spirit is o'er hung with shade ; 
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of Ga** 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night flowers round that aoor 
Still breathe pure fragrance on th' untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away ? 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear- 
Sadder than once it seemed — yet soft and clear 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
O, bless6d tone of love — the deep, the mild ! 
Mother ! my mother ! now receive thy child : 

Take back the lost and found ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 

" We receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does nature live; 
Ours ia her wedding garment, ours her ihioud ; 
And, would we aught behold of higher worth 



S68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Than that inanimate, cold world allowed 


How might our passions brook 


To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, 
Ah ! from tlie soul itself must issue forth 


The stUl and searching look. 


A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, 


The star-like glance of seraph purity ? 


Enveloping the earth ; 




And from the soul itself must there be sent 




A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, 


Thy golden -fruited grove 


Of all sweet sounds the life and element" — Coleridge. 


Was not for pining love ; 




Vain sadness would but dim thj' crystal skies ! 


Green spot of holy ground ! 


0, thou wert but a part 


If thou couldst yet be found, 


Of what man's exiled heart 


Far in deep -n-oods, with all thy starry flowers ; 


Hath lost — the dower of inborn paradise ! 


If not one sullying breath 




Of time, or change, or death, 




Had touched the vernal glory of thy bowers ; 




Might our tired pilgrim feet, 


LET US DEPART! 


Worn by the desert's heat, 




On the bright freshness of thy turf repose ? 


[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previou 
to the destniction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests 


Might our eyes wander there 


going by night into the inner court of the temple to per 


Through heaven's transparent air. 


form their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, 


And rest on colors of the immortal rose ? 


felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that 




a sound as of a great multitude saying, "Let us depart 




hence ! "] 


Say, would thy balmy skies 




And fountain melodies 


Night hung on Salem's towers. 


Our heritage of lost delight restore ? 


And a brooding hush profound 


Could thy soft honey dews 


Lay where the Roman eagle shone 


Through all our veins diffuse 


High o'er the tents around — 


The early, childlike, trustful sleep once more ? 






The tents that rose by thousands. 


And might we, in the shade 


In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 


By thy tall cedars made. 


Like white waves of a frozen sea 


With angel voices high communion hold, 


Filling an Alpine vale. 


Would their sweet, solemn tone 




Give back the music gone, 


And the temple's massy shadow 


Our being's harmony, so jarred of old ? 


Fell broad, and dark, and still, 




In peace — as if the Holy One 


0, no ! — thy sunny hours 


Yet watched his chosen hill. 


Might come with blossom showers, 




All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might 


But a fearful sound was heard 


thriU; 


In that old fane's deepest heart. 


But we — should we not bring 


As if mighty wings rushed by. 


Into thy realms of spring 


And a dread voice raised the cry, 


The shadows of our souls to haunt us still ? 


" Let us depart ! " 


What could thy flowers and airs 


Within the fated city 


Do for dir earth-born cares ? < 


E'en then fierce discord raved. 


Would the world's chain melt off and leave us 


Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword 


free ? 


Its vengeful token waved. 


No ! — past each living stream, 




Still would some fever dream 


There were shouts of kindred warfare 


Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for 


Through the dark streets ringing high. 


thee! 


Though every sign was full which told 




Of the bloody vintage nigh ; 


Should we not shrink with fear 




If angel steps were near, 


Though the wild red spears and arrows 


Feeling our burdened souls within us die ? 


Of many a meteor host 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 663 


Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 


And upwards, through transparent darknesj 


In the sky now seen, now lost. 


gleaming. 




Gazed in mute reverence woman's earnest eye, 


Vnd that fearful sound was heard 


Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming. 


In the temple's dearest heart, 


With quenchless faith, and deep love's fer- 


As if mighty wings rushed by, 


vency, 


And a voice cried mournfully, 


Gathering, like incense round some dim-veilod 


"Let us depai-t!" 


shrine. 


' 


About the form, so mournfully divine ! 


But within the fated city 




There was revelry that night — 


O, let thine image, as e'en then it rose. 


The wine cup and the timbrel note. 


Live in my soul forever, calm and clear, 


And the blaze of banquet light. 


Making itself a temple of repose. 




Beyond the breath of human hope or fear ! 


The footsteps of the dancer 


A holy place, where through all storms may 


Went bounding through the hall, 


lie 


And the music of the dulcimer 


One living beam of dayspring from on higfl' 


Summoned to festival ; 




While the clash of brother weapons 





Made lightning in the air, 




And the dying at the palace gates 


COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. 


Lay down in their despair ; 






" Could we but keep our spirits to that height, 


And that fearful sound was heard 


We might be happy ; but this clay will sink 


At the temple's thrilling heart. 


Its spark immortal." — Byeon. 


As if mighty wings rushed by. 


Return, my thoughts — come home ! 


And a dread voice raised the cry, 


Ye wild and winged ! what do ye o'er the 


" Let us depart ! " 


deep ? 




And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep, 




As birds the ocean foam ? 


! 


Swifter than shooting star. 




Swifter than lances of the northern light, 


UN A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING 




THE CROSS. 


Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, 




Hath been your course afar ! 


PAINTED BY VELASaUEZ.' 






Through the bright battle clime. 


By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 


Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian 


Holiest of sufferers ! round thy path of woe, 


streams. 


And by the weight of mortal agony 


And reeds are whispering of heroic themes. 


Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek 


By temples of old time 5 


brow. 




My heart was awed : the burden of thy pain 


Through the north's ancient halls. 


Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. 


Where banners thrilled of yore — where harp- 




strings rung ; 


I looked once more — and, as the virtue shed 


But grass waves now o'er those that fought and 


Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray 


sung — 


Of victory from thy mien ; and round thy head, 


Hearth light hath left their walls ! 


The halo, melting spirit-like away, 




Seemed of the very soul's bright rising born, 


Through forests old and dim. 


Tc glorify aU sorrow, shame, and scorn. 


Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems tr 




brood ; 


1 This picture is in the pc ssession ol tl e Viscount Harber- 


And sometimes on the haunted solitude 


V)n, Merrion Square, Dublin. 


Rises the pilgrim's hymn ; 



570 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Or where some fotintain lies, 


Bright lily of the wave ! 


With lotus cups through Orient spice woods 


Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 


gleaming ! 


Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 


There have ye been, ye wanderers ! idly dream- 


Dwelt in thy cell ; 


ing 
Of man's lost paradise ! 


Lifting alike thy head 




Of placid beauty, feminine yet free. 


Return, my thoughts — return ! 


Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 


Cares wait your presence in life's daily track, 


The waters be. 


And voices, not of music, call you back — 




Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 


What is like thee, fair flower, 




The gentle and the firm ! thus bearing up 


0, no ! return ye not ! 


To the blue sky that alabaster cup. 


Still farther, loftier, ^et your soarings be ! 


As to the shower ? 


Gn. bring me strength from journeyings bright 
and free, 


0, love is most like thee, 


O'er many a haunted spot. 


The love of woman ! quivering to the blast 




Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast. 


Go ! seek the martyr's grave, 


'Midst life's dark sea. 


'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts 




vast ; 


And faith — O, is not faith 


Or, through the ruined cities of the past, 


Like thee, too, lily ! springing into light, 


Follow the wise and brave ! 


Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 




Through the storm's breath ? 


Go ! visit cell and shrine. 




Where woman hath endured ! — through wrong. 


Yes ! linked with such high thought, 


through scorn. 


Flower ! let thine image in my bosom lie ; 


Uncheered by fame, yet silently upborne 


Till something there of its own purity 


By promptings more divine ! 


And peace be wrought — 


Go, shoot the gulf of death ! 


Something yet more divine 


Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind. 


Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 


Where the heart's boundless love its rest may 


Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 


find. 


As from a shrine. 


Where the storm sends no breath ! 




Higher, and yet more high ! 




Shake off the cumbering chain which earth 
would lay 


THE SONG OF PENITENCE.' 


On your victorious wings — mount, mount ! 


UNFINISHED. 


Your way 
Is through eternity ! 


[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that " The Song 


of Penitence," if it had been finished in time, was intended 




for insertion among the " Scenes and Hymns of Life."] 




He passed from earth 




Without his fame — the calm, pure, starry fame 


THE WATER LILY. 


He might have won, to guide on radiantly 




Full many a noble soul — he sought it not ; 


" The water lilies, that are serene in the calm, clear water, but 
BO lc«B Berene among the blaclc and scowling waves." — Lighti and 
Shadows of Scottish Life. 


And e'en like brief and barren lightning passed 
The wayward chQd of genius. And the songs 
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, 


0, BEAUTIFUL thou art, 


Had showered forth recklessly, as ocean waves 


Thou sculpture-like and stately river queen ! 




Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 


1 Suggested by the lute Mrs. Fletcher's stiiry of The Lou 


Of a pure heart. 


Life, publislied in the Amulet for IS.*?!). 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



<71 



Fling up their treasures mingled with dark 

weed, 
They died before him ; thej' were wing6d seed 
Scattered afar, and, falling on the rock 
Of the world's heart, had perished. One alone. 
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain. 
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, 
Survived the vainly gifted. In the souls 
Of tlie kind few that loved him, with a love 
Faithful to even its disappointed hope, 
That song of tears found root, and by their 

hearths 
Full oft, in low and reverential tones. 
Filled with the piety of tenderness. 
Is murmured to their children, when his name 
On some faint harpstring of remembrance 

falls. 
Far from the world's rude voices, far away. 
O, hear, and judge him gently ; 'twas his last. 

I come alone, and faint I come — 

To Nature's arms I flee ; 
The green woods take their wanderer home, 
But thou, O Father ! may I turn to thee ? 

The earliest odor of the flower, 
The bird's first song, is thine ; 
Father in heaven ! my dayspring's hour 
Poured its vain incense on another shrine. 

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene 

Around me faded lies ; 
Therefore, remembering what hath been, 
I ask. Is this mine early paradise ? 

It is, it is — but thou art gone ; 

Or if the trembling shade 
Brealhe yet of thee, with altered tone 
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismayed. 



TROUBADOUR SONG. 

Thet reared no trophy o'er his grave, 

They bade no requiem flow ; 
What left they there to tell the brave 

lliat a warrior sleeps below ? 

A. siuvered spear, a cloven shield, 
A nelm with its white plume torn, 

Ajid a blood-stained turf oi the fatal field, 
Where a chief to his rest was borne. 



He lies not where his fathers sleep ; 

But who hath a tomb more proud ? 
For the Syrian wilds his record keep, 

And a banner is his shroud. 



THE ENGLISH BOY. 

" Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt 
They owe their ancestors ; and make tliera swear 
To pay it, by transmitting clown entire 
Those sacred riglits to wliicli themselves were bom." 

AXEHSI BK 

Look from the ancient mountains down, 

My noble English boy ! 
Thy country's fields around thee gleam 

In sunlight and in joy. 

Ages have rolled since foeman's niarcb 

Passed o'er that old, firm sod; 
For well the land hath fealty held 

To freedom and to God ! 

Gaze proudly on, my English bov ' 

And let thy kindUng mind 
Drink in the spirit of high thought 

From every chainless wind ! 

There, in the shadow of old Time, 

The halls beneath thee lie 
Which poured forth to the fields of vore 

Our England's chivalry. 

How bravely and how solemnly 
They stand, 'midst oak and yew ! 

Whence Cressy's j^eoman haply framed 
The bow, in battle true. 

And round their walls the good swords hang 

Whose faith knew no alloy. 
And shields of knighthood, pure from stain : 

Gaze on, my English boy ! 

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 

Gleams by the antique elm, 
Or where the minster lifts the cross 

High through the air's blue realm. 

Martyrs have showered their free heart's blood 
That England's prayer might rise, 

From those gray fanes of thoughtful years 
Unfettered, to the skies. 

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, 
Thjy earth's most glorious dust. 



Once fired with valor, wisdom, song, 
Is laid in holy trust. 

Oaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 

My gallant English boy ! 
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag, 

The billows' pride and joy ! 

Those waves in many a fight have closed 

Above her faithful dead ; 
That red-cross flag victoriously 

Hath floated o'er their bed. 

They perished — this green turf to keep 

By hostile tread unstained, 
These knightly halls inviolate, 

Those churches unprofaned. 

And high and clear their memory's light 

Along our shore is set. 
And many an answering beacon fire 

Shall there be kindled yet ! 

Lift up thy heart, my English boy. 
And pray, like them to stand, 

Should God so summon thee, to guard 
The altars of the land. 



TO THE BLUE ANEMONE. 

Flower of starry clearness bright ! 
Quivering urn of colored light ! 
Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye 
From the intenseness of the sky ? 
From a long, long fervent gaze 
Through the year's first golden days, 
Up that blue and silent deep, 
Where, like things of sculptured sleep, 
Alabaster clouds repose, 
With the sunshine on their snows r 
Thither was thy heart's love turning. 
Like a censer ever burning, 
Till the purple heavens in thee 
Set their smile, Anemone .' 

Or can those warm tints be caught 
Each from some quick glow of thought ? 
So much of bright soul there seerns 
Li thy bendings and thy gleams, 
So much thy sweet life resembles 
That which feels, and weeps, and treiables, 
I could deem thee spirit-filled, 
As a reed by music thrilled, 



When thy being I behold 
To each loving breath unfold, 
Or, like woman's willowy form. 
Shrink from the gathering storm 1 
I could ask a voice from thee, 
Delicate Anemone ! 

Flower ! thou seem'st not bom to 'lie 
With thy radiant purity, 
But to melt in air away. 
Mingling with the soft spring day, 
When the crystal heavens are still, 
And faint azure veils each hill. 
And the lime leaf doth not move, 
Save to songs that stir the grove, 
And earth aU glorified is ?een. 
As imaged in some lake serene ; 
— Then thy vanishing should be. 
Pure and meek Anemone ! 

Flower ! the laurel still may shed 
Brightness round the victor's head ; 
And the rose in beauty's hair 
Still its festal glory wear ; 
And the willow leaves drop o'er 
Brows which love sustains no more : 
But by living rays refined, 
Thou, the trembler of the wind, 
Thou the spiritual flower, 
Sentient of each bi^eze and shower, 
Thou, rejoicing in the skies. 
And transpierced mth all their dyes ; 
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing. 
Gem-like to thy centre glowing, 
Thou the poet's tj-^pe shalt be. 
Flower of soul. Anemone ! 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM 
GOETHE. 

SCENES FROM "TASSO.'^ 

The dramatic poem of " Tasso," though pre- 
senting no changeful pageants of many-colored 
life, — no combination of stirring incidents, not 
conflict of tempestuous passions, — is yet rich in 
interest for those who find 

" The still, sad music of humanity 

of ample power 

To chasten and subdue." 

It is a picture of the struggle between ele- 
ments which never can assimilate — poweri 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



673 



whose dominion is over spheres essentially- 
adverse ; between the spirit of poetry and the 
Bpirit of the world. Why is it that this col- 
lision is almost invariably fatal to the gentler 
and the holier nature ? Some master minds 
have, indeed, winged their way through the 
tumults of crowded life, like the sea bird cleav- 
ing the storm from which its pinions come forth 
unstained ; but there needs a celestial panoply, 
with which few indeed are gifted, to bear the 
heirs of genius not only unwounded, but un- 
Boiled, through the battle ; and too frequently 
the result of the poet's lingering afar from his 
better home has been mental degradation and 
untimely death. Let us not be understood as 
requiring for his well being an absolute seclusion 
from the world and its interests. His nature, if 
the abiding-place of the true light be indeed 
within him, is endowed above all others with 
the tender est and most widely- embracing sym- 
pathies. Not alone from "the things of the 
everlasting hills," from the storms or the silence 
of midnight skies, will he seek the grandeur 
and the beauty which have their central resi- 
dence in a far more majestic temple. Moun- 
tains, and rivers, and mighty woods, the cathe- 
drals of nature — these wiU have their part in 
his pictures ; but their coloring and shadows 
wiU not be wholly the gift of rising or departed 
suns, nor of the night with all her stars ; it will 
be a varying suffusion from the life within, from 
the glowing clouds of thought and feeling, 
which mantle with their changeful drapery all 
external creation. 

" We receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does nature live." 

Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods 
and shadowy hills a heart full fraught with the 
sympathies which will have been fostered by in- 
tercourse with his kind — a memory covered 
with the secret inscriptions w'hich joy and sor- 
row fail not indelibly to write : then will the 
voice of every stream respond to him in tones 
of gladness or melancholy, accordant with those 
of his own soul ; and he himself, by the might 
of feelings intensely human, may breathe the 
living spirit of the oracle into the resounding 
cavern or the whispering oak. SWe thus admit 
it essential to his high office, that the chambers 
of imagery in the heart of the poet must be 
filled with materials moulded from the sorrows, 
the affections, the fiery trials, and immortal 
longings of the human soul. Where love, and 
faith, and anguish meet and contend, — where 
85 



the tones of prayer are wrung from the suffering 
spirit, — there lie his veins af treasure ; there are 
the sweet waters ready to flow from the stricken 
rock. But he will not seek them through the 
gaudy and hurrying mask of artificial life ; he 
will not be the fettered Samson to make sport 
for the sons and daughters of fashion. Whilst 
he shuns no brotherly communion with his 
kind, he will ever reserve to his nature the 
power of se^- communion — silent hours for 

" The harvest of the quiet eye 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart, 

and inviolate retreats in the depths of his being 
— fountains lone and still, upon which only the 
eye of HeaA'en shines down in its hallowed 
serenity. So have those who make us " heirs 
of truth and freedom by immortal lays " ever 
reserved the calm, intellectual ether in which 
they live and move from the taint of worldly 
infection ; and it appears the object of Goethe, 
in the work before us, to make the gifted spirit 
sadder and wiser by the contemplation of one, 
which, having sold its birthright, and stooped 
from its " privacy of glorious light," is forced 
into perpetual contact with things essentially 
of the earth, earthy. Dante has spoken of what 
the Italian poets must have learned but too 
feelingly under their protecting princes — the 
bitter taste of another's bread, the weary steps 
by which the stairs of another's house are as- 
cended ; but it is suffering of a more spiritual 
nature which is here portrayed. Would that 
the courtly patronage, at the shrine of which 
the Italian muse has so often waved her censer, 
had imposed no severer tasks upon its votaries 
than the fashioning of the snow statue which ii 
required from the genius of Michael Angelo ! 
The story of Tasso is fraught with yet deeper 
meaning, though it is not from the period of 
his most agonizing trials that the materials of 
Goethe's work are drawn. The poet is here in- 
troduced to us as a 3'outh at the court of Fer- 
rara; visionary, enthusiastic, keenly alive to the 
splendor of the gorgeous world around him, 
throwing himself passionately upon the current 
of every newly-excited feeling ; a creature of 
sudden lights and shadows, of restless striving* 
after ideal perfection, of exultations and o£ 
agonies. Wliy is it that the being thus ex- 
hibited as endowed with all these trembling 
capacities for joy and pain, with noble aspira- 
tions and fervid eloquence, fails to excite a more 
reverential interest, a more tender admiration ? 
He is wanting in dignity, in the sustaining con- 



674 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



•ciousness of his own high mission ; he has no 
city of refuge within himself, and thus 

" Every little living nerve, 
That from bitter vvfords doth swerve," 

has the power to shake his whole soul from its 
pride of place. He is thus borne down by the 
cold, ulumphant worldliness of the courtier An- 
tonio, from the collision with whom, and the 
mistaken endeavor of Tasso's friends to recon- 
cile natures dissimilar as the sjdph and gnome 
ot fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of 
the piece are chiefly derived. There are im- 
pressive lessons to be drawn from the contem- 
plation of these scenes, though, perhaps, it is 
not quite thus that we could have wished Mm 
delineated who " poured his spirit over Pales- 
tme ; " and it is occasionally almost too painful 
to behold the high-minded Tasso, recognized by 
his country as siqierior with the sword and thepen 
to all men, struggling in so ignoble an arena, 
and finally overpowered |by so unworthy an an- 
tagonist. This world is indeed " too much with 
TiS," and but too powerful is often its withering 
breath upon the ethereal natures of love, devo- 
tion, and enthusiasm, which, in other regions, 

" May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil." 

Yet who has not knoM'n victorious moments, in 
which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have 
quailed — the conventional forms of life have 
shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel 
touch of some generous feeling, some high and 
overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from 
the inmost recesses of the folded soul, and 
striking the electric chain which mysteriously 
connects all humanity ? We could have wished 
that some such thrilling moment had been here 
introduced by the mighty master of Germany — 
something to relieve the too continuous impres- 
sion of inherent weakness in the cause of the 
vanquished — something of a transmuting power 
in the soul of Tasso, to glorify the clouds which 
accumulate around it — to turn them into " con- 
tingencies of pomp " by the interpenetration 
of its own celestial light. Yet we approach 
with reverence the work of a noble hand ; and, 
whilst entering upon our task of translation, we 
ackrowledge, in humility, the feebleness of all 
endeavor to pour into the vase of another lan- 
guage the exquisitely subtile spirit of Goethe's 
poetry — to transplant and naturalize the deli- 
cate felicities of thought and expression by 
which this piece is so eminently distinguished. 
The visionary rapture which takes possession 



of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel b) 
the Princess Leonora d'Este, the object of an 
affection -which the youthful poet has scarcely 
yet acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed 
in one of the earlier scenes : — 

" Let me then bear the burden of my bliss 

To some deep grove that oft hath veiled my 

grief ; 
There let me roam in solitude : no eye 
Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. 
And if some shining fountain suddenly 
On its clear mirror to my sight should give 
The form of one who, strangely, brightly 

crowned. 
Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, 
As it streams down through rocks and parted 

trees. 
Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave • 
I see Elysium pictured ! I will ask 
Who is the blessed departed one — the youth 
From long past ages with his glorious wreath ? 
Who shall reveal his name ? — who speak his 

worth ? 
O that another and another there 
Might press, with him to hold bright com- 
muning ! 
Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs 
Of the old time on that pure fountain side, 
Forevermore inseparably linked 
As they were linked in life I Not steel to steel 
Is bound more closely by the magnet's power 
Than the same striving after lofty things 
Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer's life 
Was self-forgetfulness — he poured it forth, 
One rich libation to another's fame ; 
And Alexander through th' Elysian grove 
To seek Achilles and his poet flies. 
Might I behold their meeting ! " 

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. An- 
tonio reaches the court of Ferrara at this crisis, 
in all the importance of a successful negotiation 
with the Vatican. He strikes down the wing 
of the poet's delicate imagination with the ar- 
rows of a careless irony, and Tasso is for a time 
completely dazzled and overpowered by the 
worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The 
deeper wisdom of his own simplicity is yet 
veiled from his eyes. Life seems to pass before 
him, as portrayed by the discourse of Antonio, 
like a mighty triumphal procession, in the ex- 
I ulting movements and clarion sounds of which 
I he alone has no share ; and at last the forms oi 
I beauty, peopling his own spiritual world, seen 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



671 



to dissolve into clouds, even into faint shadows 
of clouds, before the strong glare of the external 
world, leaving his imagination as a desolate 
house, whence light and music have departed. 
He thus pours forth, vt^hen alone with the 
Princess Leonora, the impressions produced 
upon him. by Antonio's descriptions : — 

They still disturb my heart — 
Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously — 
The troubling images of that vast world. 
Which — living, restless, fearful as it is — 
Yet, at the bidding of one master mind. 
E'en as commanded by a demigod, 
Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, 
Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in 
The strong words of the experienced ; but alas ! 
The more I listened, still the more I sank 
In mine own eyes ; I seemed to die away 
As into some faint echo of the rocks — 
A shadowy sound — a nothing ! 

There is something of a very touching beauty 
In the character of the Princess Leonora d'Este. 
She does not, indeed, resemble some of the 
lovely beings delineated by Shakapeare — the 
females, " graceful without design, and unfore- 
seeing," in whom, even under the pressure of 
heaviest calamity, it is easy to discern the exist- 
ence of the sunny and gladsome nature which 
would spring up with fawn-like buoyancy were 
but the crushing weight withdrawn. The spirit 
of Leonora has been at once elevated and sub- 
dued by early trial : high thoughts, like mes- 
sengers from Heaven, have been its visitants in 
the solitude of the sick chamber ; and looking 
upon life and creation, as it were, through the 
softening veil of remembered suffering, it has 
settled into such majestic loveliness as the Ital- 
ian painters delight to shadow forth on the calm 
brow of their Madonna. Its very tenderness is 
self-resignation ; its inner existence serene, yet 
sad — "a being breathing thoughtful breath." 
She is worshipped by the poet as his tutelarj' 
angel, and her secret affection for him might 
almost become that character. L It has all the 
deep devotedness of a woman's heart, Avith the 
still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no 
part in the passionate dreams of earthly happi- 
ness. She feels his genius with a reverential 
appreciation ; she watches over it with a reli- 
gious tenderness, forever interposing to screen 
its unfolding powers from every ruder breath. 
She rejoices in his presence as a flower filling its 
cup with g ladness from the morning light ; yet. 



preferring his well being to all earthly things, 
she would meekly offer up, for the knowledge 
of his distant happiness, even the fulness of that 
only and unutterable joy. A deep feeling of 
woman's lot on earth — the lot of endurance 
and of sacrifice — seems ever present to her soul, 
and speaks characteristically in these lines, with 
which she replies to a wish of Tasso's for the 
return of the golden age : — 

When earth has men to reverence female hearts, 
To know the treasure of rich truth and love, 
Set deep within a high-souled woman's breast ; . 
When the remembrance of our summer prime •: 
Keeps brightly in man's heart a holy place ; 
When the keen glance that pierces through so 

much 
Looks also tenderly through that dim veil 
By time or sickness hung round drooping forms ; 
When the possession, stilling every wish, 
Draws not desire away to other wealth — 
A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn. 
Then may -we solemnize our golden age. 

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and 
sell-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly 
sensitive to the secret intimations of coming 
sorrow. Forebodings of evil arise in her mind 
from the antipathy so apparent between Tasso 
and Antonio ; and, after learning that the cold, 
keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet 
.almost to frenzy, she thus, to her friend Leonora 
de Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having 
listened to the monitory whispers of her soul • 

Alas ! that we so slowly learn to heed 
The secret signs and omens of the breast ! 
An oracle speaks low within our hearts — 
Low, still, yet clear, its prophet voice forewarns 
What to pursue, what shun. 

Yes ! my whole soul misgave me silently 
When he and Tasso met. 

She admits to her friend the necessity for hi* 
departure from Ferrara ; but thus reverts, with 
fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time wher 
he first became known to her : — 

O, marked and singled was the hour when firs . 
He met mine eye ! Sickness and grief just thet 
Had passed away : from long, long suffering freed, 
I lifted up my brow, and silently 
Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, 
The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light 



175 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Her companion endeavors, but in vain, to con 

sole her. 

Leon. If the kind words of friendship canno / 
soothe, V 

The still, sweet influences of this fair world 
Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. 

Prin. Yes ! beautiful it is, the glowing world ! 

So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro ^ 

In all its paths, and ever, ever seems 
One step, hut one, removed ; till our fond thirst 
For the still fading fountain, step by step. 
Lures to the grave ! So seldom do we find 
What seemed by nature moulded for our love. 
And for our bliss endowed — or, if we find, 
So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold ! 
That which once freely made itself our own 
Burts from us ! t— that which eagerly we pressed 
We coldly loose ! A treasure may be ours, ( 
Only we know it not, or know, perchance, \ 
Unconscious of its worth \< 

ZJ 

But the dark clouds are gathering within the 
spirit of Tasso itself, and the devotedness of af- 
fection would in vain avert their lightnings bj" 
the sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In 
the solitary confinement to which the duke has 
sentenced him, as a punishment for his due] 
with Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that 
of the self-torturing Rousseau, pictures the 
whole world as arrayed in one conspiracy against 
him, and he doubts even of her truth and gen- 
tleness whose watching thoughts are all for 
his welfare. The following passages affectingly 
mark the progress of the dark despondency 
which finally overwhelms him, though the con- 
cluding lines of the last are brightened by a ray 
of those immortal hopes, the light of which we 
could have desired to recognize more frequently 
in this deeply-thoughtful work. 

PRESENTIMENT OP HIS KUIN. 

Alas ! too well I feel, too true a voice 
Within me whispers, that the mighty Power 
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, 
Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast 
Mine to the earth — will rend me utterly ! — 
I must away ! 

ON A friend's declaring HERSELF UNABLE 1w 
RECOGNIZE HIM. 

Rightly thou speak' st — I am myself no more ; 
And yet in worth not less than I have been. 
Seems this a dark, strange riddle ? Yet, 'tis none ] 
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night — • 



Of gladness rouna me, and my freshened heart 
Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. 
Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared 
To send my glance, and many a kind, bright 

shape 
There beckoned from afar. Then first the youth. 
Led by a sister's hand, before me stood, 
A.nd mj- soul clung to him e'en then, O friend ! 
To chng JR: r evermore. 1 
Leo. Lament it not, 

I My princess ! — to have known Heaven's gifted 

ij ones 

[ Is to have gathered into the full soul 
Inalienable wealth ! 

Prin. precious things ! 
The richly graced, the exquisite, are things 
To fear, to love with trembling ! Beautiful 
Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines. 
When in the friendly torch it gives thee light. 
How gracious and how calm ! — but, once un- 
chained, 
Lo ! ruin sweeps along its fatal path ! 

( She then announces her determination to make 
) the sacrifice of his society, in wliich alone her 
^- being seems to find its full completion. 

Alas, dear friend ! my soul indeed is fixed — 
Let him depart ! Yet cannot I but feel 
Even now the sadness of long days to come — 
The cold void left me by a lost delight ! 
No more shall sunrise from my oi^ening eye 
Chase his bright image glorified in dreams ; 
Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir 
With joyous flutterings my scarce- wakened 

soul ; 
And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers. 
Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look 
Shall seek his form ! [How blissful was the 

thought 
With him to share each golden evening's peace ! 
How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read 
His spirit yet more deeply ! Day by day 
H iw my own being, tuned to happiness, 
Gave forth a voice of finer harmony ! -4- 
N >w is the twilight gloom around me fallen : 
The festal day, the sun's magnificence. 
Ail riches of this many- colored world, 
What are they now .'' — dim, soulless, desolate C 
Veiled in the cloud that sinks upon my heart, j 
Once was each day a Ufe ! — each care was mute. 
Even the low boding hushed within the soul ; 
And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, 
Without the rudder's aid, bore lightly on 
Our fairy bark of joy ! 



rhine eye, thy spirit irresistibly 

Winning with beams of love ! — mark ! how it 

floats 
rhrough the day's glare, a pale and powerless 

cloud ! 
I am o'ercome by the full blaze of noon ; 
Ye know me, and I know myself no more ! 

ON BEIXG ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COM- 
POSITION. 

Vainly, too vainly, 'gainst the power I strive. 
Which, night and day, comes rushing through 

my soul ! 
Without that pouring forth of thought and song 
My life is life no more ! 
Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on. 
When hourl}', with the labored line, he draws 
Nearer to death ? In vain ! — the costly web 
Must from his inmost being still be wrought, 
Till he lies wrapped in his consummate shroud. 
O that a gracious God to us may give 
The lot of that blessed worm ! — to spread free 

wings, 
A.nd burst exultingly on brighter life. 
In a new realm of sunshine ! 

He is at last released, and admitted into the 
presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his 
leave of her before commencing a distant journey. 
Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her in- 
terest in him, he is overcome by the pitying ten- 
derness of her manner, and breaks into a strain 
of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm : — 

Thou art the same pure angel as when first 
Thy radiance crossed my path ! Forgive, forgive, 
If for a moment, in his blind despair, 
The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee 

wrong ! 
Once more he knows thee ! His expanding soul 
Flows forth to worship thee forevermore, 
And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. 

Is it false light which draws me on to thee ? 
Is it delirium ? Is it thought inspired, 
And grasping first high truth divinely clear ? 
Yes ! 'tis even so — the feeling which alone 
Can make me blessed on earth ! 

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his 
gentle protectress from him ; he is forsaken by 
all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and, being 
Ifift alone to the insulting pity of Antonio, his 
strength of heart is utterly subdued : he passion- 
ately bewailB Vis weakness, and even casts down 



his spirit almost in wondering admiration befotB 
the calm self-coUectedness of his enemy, wJti€ 
himself seems at last almost melted by the ex« 
tremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured 
forth : — 

Can I then image no high-hearted man 
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpassed minf 

own. 
That my vey°d soul might win sustainiqjg powei 
From thoug.ivJ of him f I cannot ! — all is lost i 
One thing alone remains, one mournful boon • 
Nature on us, her sufl'ering children, showers 
The gift of tears — the impassioned cry of griefi 
When man can bear no more ; — and with my 

woe, 
With mine above all others, hath been luiked 
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour 
All, all its fulness forth ! To me a God 
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, 
When others, in their deep despair, are mute 1 

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man ! 
I seem before thee as the troubled wave : 
But O, be thoughtful ! — in thy lofty strength 
Exult thou not ! By nature's might alike 
That rock was fixed, that quivering wave wai 

made 
The sensitive of storm ! She sends her blasts — 
The living water flies — it quakes and swells, 
And bows down tremblingly with breaking 

foam ; 
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back 
In calm transparence — once the gentle stars 
Lay still upon its undulating breast ! 
Now the sweet peace is gone — the glory now 
Departed from the wave ! I know myself 
No more in these dark perils, and no more 
I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark 
Is wrenched the rudder, and through all its 

frame 
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my fee* 
The rocking earth gives way — to thee I cling — 
I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despaii 
So doth the strugghng sailor clasp the rock 
Whereon he perishes ! 

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, 
the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck 
within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from 
outward circumstances and change. The ma- 
jestic lines in which Byron has embodied the 
thoughts of the captive Tasso will form a fine 
contrast and relief to the music of despair wito 
which Goethe's work is closed : — 



S78 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



"AH this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair 5 

For I have baffled with mine agony, 

And made me wings wherewith to overfl*^ 

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 

And revelled among men and things divine, 

And poured my spirit over Palestine, 

In honor of the sacred war for Him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven ; 

For he hath strengthened me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

£ have employed my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored." 



SCENES FROM » IPHIGENIA." 

A FEAGMENT. 

There is a charm of antique grace, of the ma- 
jestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, 
about the whole of this composition, which in- 
clines us to rank it as among the most consum- 
mate works of art ever achieved by the master 
mind of its author. The perfection of its design 
and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian 
temple, seen as the crown of some old classic 
height, with all its pure outlines — all the delicate 
proportions of its airy pillars — brought into bold 
relief by the golden sunshine, and against the 
•inclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete 
within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also 
o the mind and eye of the beholder ; they are 
filled, and desire no more — they even feel that 
more would be but encumbrance upon the fine 
adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting 
the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to 
"vander through infinity, such as are excited by 
a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles 
■triving upward, like the free but still baffled 
thought of the architect — the clustering pillars 
and high arches imitating the bold combinations 
">! mysterious forests — the many-branching cells, 
and long visionary aisles, of which waving torch- 
ight or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the 
fittest illumination — ever suggest ideas of some 
■•onception in the originally moulding mind, far 
Tiore vast than the means jillotted to human 
accomplishment — of struggling endeavor, and 
painfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of 
Btich creations is that of the awful but irregular 
Faust, and other works of Goethe, in which the 
restless questionings, the lofty aspirations, and 



dark misgivings of the human soul a"'^ perpetu- 
ally called up to " come like shadows, p« depart," 
across the stormy splendors of the sconrt ; and 
the mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict, with 
the interminable mysteries of life. It is other- 
wise with the work before us : overshadowed, a,a 
it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible Des- 
tiny which hovers above the children of Tantalus, 
the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well e* 
of the reader, here moves acquiescently within 
the prescribed circle of events, and is seldom 
tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss oi 
general speculations upon the lot of humaiaty 



JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE 
LANGUAGE. 

sweetest voice ! O blessed familiar sound 
Of mother words heard in the stranger's land ! 

1 see the blue hills of my native shore. 
The far blue hUls again ! those cordial tones 
Before the captive bid them freshly rise 
Forever welcome ! O, by this deep joy, 
Know the true son of Greece ! 



EXCLAMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEINO HBB 
BROTHER. 

O, hear me ! look upon me ! How my heart, 
After long desolation, now unfolds 
Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head. 
Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth ! 
To clasp thee with my arms, which were but 

thrown 
On the void winds before ! 0, give me way ! 
Give my soul's rapture way I The eternal fount 
Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff" to cliff 
Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale, 
Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my 

heart. 
And swells around me to a flood of bliss — 
Orestes ! — O my brother ! 



LOT OF MAN AND WOMAN COMPARED BY IPHIOENIA. 

Man by the battle's hour immortalized 
May fall, yet leave his name to living song ; 
But of forsaken woman's countless tears. 
What recks the after world ? The poet's voice 
Tells nought of all the slow, sad, weary days, 
And long, long nights, through which the lonelj 

soul 
Poured itself forth, consumed itself away. 
In passionate adjurings, vain desires, 



RECURDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



679 



And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, 
The lof ed and vanished ! 



LONGING OF ORESTES FOR REPOSE. 

One dratight from Lethe's flood! — reach me 

one draught, 
One last cool goblet filled with dewy peace ! 
Soon will the spasm of life departing leave 
My bosom free ! Soon shall my spirit flow 
Along the deep waves of forgetfubiess, 
Calmly and silently, away to you. 
Ye dead ! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud, 
Take home the son of earth, and let him steep 
His o'erworn senses in your dim repose 
Forevermore. 



CONTINUATION OF ORESTES SOLILOQUY. 

Hark ! in the trembhng leaves 
Mysterious whispers : hark ! a rushing sound 
Sweeps through yon twilight depth ! — e'en now 

they come. 
They throng to greet their guest ! And who are 

they 
Rejoicing each with each in stately joy. 
As a king's children gathered for the hour 
Of some high festival ? Exultingly, 
And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass — 
The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young. 
Proud men and royal women ! Lo ! my race — 
My sire's ancestral race ! 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 

1834. 

^ IfK'se sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and 
tune, were intended, topetlier with the Records of the Au- 
lumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled 
" Sjinets, Devotional and Memorial."] 

A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

) FBSTAL Spring ! 'midst thy victorious glow, 
Far sf reading o'er the kindled woods and plains. 
And streams, that bound to meet thee from 

their chains, 
Weill might there lurk the shadow of a woe 
For l-.uman hearts, and in the exulting flow 
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone. 
Were we of mould all earthly — loe alone, 
Severed from thj^ great spell, and doomed to go 



Farther, still farther, from our sunny tim9. 
Never to feel the breathings of our prime. 
Never to flower again ! But we, O Spring ! 
Cheered by deep spirit whispers not of earth, 
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, 
As here thy flowers and birds press on to blooni 
and sing. 



TO THE SKY. 

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough, 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made. 
Far from the green hills with their heathery 

glow 
And flashing streams Avhereby my childhood 

plaj^ed, 
In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow 
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn, 
O thou rich Sky ! and from thy splendors learn 
How song birds come and part, flowers wan? 

and blow. 
With thee all shapes of glory find their home 
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome 
By stars, by sunsets, bj"^ soft clouds which rove 
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 
That Nature's God hath left no spot unblessed 
With founts of beauty for the eye of love 



ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.' 

O, JUDGE in thoughtful tenderness of those 
Who, richly dowered for life, are called to die 
Ere the soul's fiame, through storms, hath won 

repose 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! 
Let their minds' riches claim a trustful sigh 1 
Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony^, 
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held 
From its true sphere — 0, soon it might havfl 

swelled 
Majestically forth ! Nor doubt that He, 
Whose touch mysterious jnay on earth dissolve 
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion 

gusts made free ! 



1 Written after reading some ot tue earner poems ol tn» 
late Mrs. Tighe, wliich had been lent her in manuscript 



680 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



L- 



ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A 
SKYLARK. 

Upward and upward still ! — in pearly light 
The cl6uds are steeped ! the vernal spirit sighs 
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 
Woo thee, O bird, to thy celestial height. 
BLd, piercing heaven with music ! thy free 

'flight 
Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of aU 
For those wherein the rapture and the might 
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn 
For their high place. O heirs of genius ! learn 
From the sky's bird your way ! No joy may fill 
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 
To bless yo^lr songs, ye children of the sun ! 
Sive by the unswerving flight, upward and 

upward still ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main ! 
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought pro- 
found 
In my lone being, made thy restless plain 
As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane. 
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, blue deep ! 
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, 
Never to thee did love with silvery chain 
Draw my soul's dream, which through all 

nature sought 
What waves deny — some bower of steadfast 

bliss, 
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, 
As with sweet flowers. But chastened hope for 

this 
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from 

thee, 
To that sole changeless world, where " there is 
no more sea." 



DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT 
EVENING. 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale. 

Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard. 

Thy swell, thou deep ! when evening calls the 

bird 
And bee to rest ; when summer tints grow pale, 
Been through the gathering of a dewy veil ; 



And pea'sant steps are hastening to repose, 
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower cupl 

close 
To the last whisper of the falling gale. 
Then 'midst the dying of all other sound. 
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, 
Lone worshipping, and knows that through tl,fl 

night 
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone 
Speaks to our being of the eternal One, 
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering 

might. 



THE RIVER CLWYD, IN NORTH WALES 

O Cambrian river ! with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruined towers ; 
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding ; 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of 

flowers ; 
Long flowed the current of my life's clear houri 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my 

dream, 
Though time, and change, and other mightiei 

powers 
Far from thy side haA'e borne me. Thou, smooth 

stream ! 
Art winding still thy sunny meads along 
Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, 
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hatl 

passed 
Through rocks and storms ; yet will I not v-om- 

plain. 
If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent deep 

at last. 



ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. 

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight 

Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough ? 

Doth their sweet household smile waft back the 
glow 

Of childhood's morn — the wondering, fresh de- 
light 

In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright. 

A joy of fairyland ? Doth some old nook. 

Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book. 

Rise on thy soul, with faint-streaked blossoms 
white 

Showered o'er the turf, and the lone piimrost 
knot. 

And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, 



RECOKDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



681 



A.nd the bee's dreary cMme ? gentle friend ! 
The world's cold breath, not time's, this life 

bereaves 
Of vernal gifts : Time hallows what he leaves, 
And will for us endear spring memories to the 

end. 5* May. 



TO A DISTANT SCENE. 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 

far-off, grassy dell ? — and dost thou see, 
Wlien southern vnnds first wake their vernal 

singing, 
The star gleam of the wood anemone ? 
Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet ? the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell 
To their wild blooms ? and, round my beechen 

tree, 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss bank swell ? 
O strange illusion ! by the fond heart wrought, 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 

My being's tide of many-colored thought 
Hath passed from thee ; and now, rich, leafy 

place ! 

1 paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene. 
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadowed by what hath 

been. 



A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. 

VALE and lake, within your mountain urn 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return. 
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit lands remote. 
Isles of the blest, and in our memory keep 
Their place with hoKest harmonies. Fair scene. 
Most ] oved by evening and her dewy star ! 
O, ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar 
The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
Sniiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, 
and prayer, 



THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 

fEEEs, gracious trees ! — how rich a gift ye arc, 

'""i-own of the earth ! to human hearts and eyes ! 

86 



How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, 
Linked with your forms and kindly whispering! 

rise ! 
How the whole picture of a childhood lies 
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 
Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, 
As hushed we stand, a breeze perchance may 

creep, 
And old, sweet leaf sounds reach the inner world, 
Where memory coils — and lo ! at once unfurled, 
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight 
Spreads clear ; while, gushing from their long- 
sealed urn, 
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting pray- 
ers return. 
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light. 



THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek things, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds of shy song, and low- voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the wind betrayed. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tints hath 

played 
With his first primrose wreath ; there love hath 

sought 
A veiling gloom for his unuttered thought 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hushed, and dim ; 
For Avheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still 
Confessed a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless 

hvmn. 



ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA 
IN CHILDHOOD. 

GENTLE story of the Indian isle ! 

1 loved thee in mj' lonely childhood well 

On the :jea shore, when day's last, purple sraile 
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell 
Unto thine ocean pictures. 'Midst thy palms 
And strange bright birds my fancy joyed to 

dwell. 
And watch the southern cross through midnight 

calms, 
Aiid track the spicy woods. Yet more I blessed 
Thy vision of sweet love- kind, trustful, trne. 



682 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, 
With such pure smiles as paradise once knew. 
Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's 

power 
To reach with blight that holiest Eden flower. 



A IE OUGHT AT SUNSET. 

Still that last look is solemn ! though thy 

rays, 
O sun ! to-morrow will give back, we know. 
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half fearful ; and in days 
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell 
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays. 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 
O sun of Greece ! glorious, festal sun ! 
Lost, lost ! — for them thy golden hours were 

done, 
And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchained. 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustained — 
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star. 



IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Calm scene's of patriarch life ! how long a power 
Your unworn pastoral images retain 
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 
Drank their pure freshness deep ! The camels' 

train 
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain — 
The tent, the palm tree, the reposing flock. 
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock — 
O, by how subtile, yet how strong a chain, 
And in the influence of its touch how blessed. 
Are these things linked, in many a thoughtful 

breast, 
Tc household memories, for all change endeared ! 
— The matin bird, the ripple of a stream 
Beside our native porch, the hearthlight's gleam. 
The voices, earliest by the soul revered ! 



ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 

What secret current of man's nature turns 
Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow ? 



Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain bums, 
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow ; 
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and 

slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where passed the shepherd fathers of mankind. 
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far 
Still points to where our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace ? O thou true Eastern star ! 
Savior ! atoning Lord ! where'er we roam, 
Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain 
Their hope the fair lost birthright to regain ! 



TO AN AGED FRIEND.» 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, 
Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done ; 
The charm now lingering in thy look and woi i 
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun — 
That which the spirit of decay hath won 
Still .from revering love. Yet doth the sens» 
Of life immortal — progress but begun — 
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, 
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy de- 

cUne ; 
And the loved flowers which round thee smile 

farewell 
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, 
By thy pure spirit touched with light divine : 
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given. 
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven 



A HAPPY HOUR. 

O, WHAT a joy to feel that, in ir.y breast, 
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay 
Still pure, though heavii"^ ar»d long repressed 
By early-blighted leavfcs, which o'er their way 
Dark summer stormd nad heaped. But free, 

glad play 
Once more was given them : to the sunshine's 

glow, 



1 The sonnet " To »n aged Friend," first published in 
Mrs. Ilemans's PoUica'. Remains, was addressed to Dr. Per- 
ceval of Dublin. Tiie <ionnet " Tc, the Datura Arbor»^," ir 
the same volume wa? written aftzt seeing a superb ppeci 
men of that striUnc plant in Dr. Perceval's beautiful greer. 
house at Annefijsld. 

Dr. Perceval died 3d March, I'^df , eq^dUy respected ft 
his talents and virtues. 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



684 



A.iid the sweet wood song's penetrating flow, 
And to the wandering primrose breath of May, 
And the rich hawthorn odors, forth they sprung. 
0, not less freshly bright, that now a thought 
Of spiritual presence o'er them hung, 
And of immortal life ! a germ, unwrought 
In childhood's soul to power — now strong, 

serene, 
And full of love and light, coloring the whole 

blessed scene. 



FOLIAGE. 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 
rhe joy of verdure ! See ! the honeyed lime 
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild 

flowers weave 
Thick tapestry, and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime ; 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar. 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each 

gale 
That sweeps the boughs : the chestnut flowers 

are past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge. O, never may we lose, 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest na- 
ture's hues ! 2d June. 



A PRAYER. 

Father in heaven ! from whom the simplest 

flower, 
On the high Alps or fiery desert throvsoi. 
Draws not sweet odor or young life alone, 
But the deep virtue of an inborn power, 
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour 
With thoughts of thee — to strengthen, to infuse 
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 
That speak thy presence ! O, with such a dower 
Grace thou my song ! — the precious gift bestow 
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine. 
To wake one tear of purifying flow. 
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine ; 
Bo shall the life breathed through the lowly 

strain 
Be as the meek wild flowers — if transient, yet 

not vain. 



PRAYER CONTINUED. 

" What in me is dark, 
niumiue i what is low, raise and support."— Miltow. 

Far are the wings of intellect astray 
That strive not, Father ! to thy heavenly seat ; 
They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat 
Still on their plumes. O Source of mental daj 
Chase from before my spirit's track the array 
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly carp. 
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, 
And veil the opening of the starry way 
"Which brightens on to thee ! O, guide thoy 

right 
My thought's weak pinion ; clear my inward 

sight. 
The eternal springs of beauty to discern, 
Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear, 
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear ; 
Keep my.soul wakeful still to listen and to leaii 



MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 

Yes ! aU things tell us of a birthright lost — 
A brightness from our nature passed away ! 
Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast 
Would turn to where their Father's mansion 

lay; 
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decaj 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
Revealing dimly, with gray moss o'ergrown. 
The faint, worn impress of its glory's day, 
Can trace their once-free heritage, though 

dreams. 
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleama 
Flash o'er their souls. But One, O, One alone. 
For us the ruined fabric may rebuild. 
And bid the wildernoss again be filled 
With Eden flowers — - One mighty to atone ! 

27th June t 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 
1834. 

THE RETURN TO POETRY. 

Once more the eternal melodies from fai 
Woo me like songs of home ; once more dis- 
cerning, 

1 For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we ar« 
indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness ; as also fo; 
some improved readings, and the MS. of " A Happy Hour " 



684 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Through fitfii- clouds, the pure majestic star 
Above tl e poet's world serenely burning, 
Thither my soul, fresh winged by love, is 

turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood bird seeks her nest, 
For those green heights of dewy stillness 

yearning. 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's 

unrest. 
Now be the Spirit of Heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright land ! — that no brief glad- 
ness, found 
In passing bloom, rich odor, or sweet sound, 
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true, high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain. 
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 

9th September. 



TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING 
HIS "PBIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery 

side. 
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge 
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested 

surge, 
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide 
By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea, 
Or chainluss wild, reign far less nobly free 
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 
By thy brave sufl'ering. Thou from its dark 

cell 
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 
Filling the dedicated solitude 
With God ; and where his Spirit deigns to dwell, 

1 In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs. Hemans thus re- 
marks in a letter to a friend : " I wrote them only a few 
days ago, (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, 
after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that de- 
lightful book of Pellico's,* which I borrowed in consequence 
•»f what you had told me of it. I know not when I have 
read any thing which has so deeply impressed nie : the grad- 
ual brightening of heart and soul into ' the perfect day ' of 
Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I 
think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing, pic- 
tures ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene be- 
tween him and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to 
■brink not from the avowal of their faith, should they ever 
return into the world ! But I could say so much on this 
lubject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it 
Krould lead me to fill up my whole letter." 

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a 
• trork with which I have been both impressed and de- 

• " Le mie Erigioni." 



Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie 
There throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



TO THE SAME, RELEASED.^ 

How flows thy being now ? — like some glad 

hymn, 
One strain of solemn rapture ? — doth thine ey« 
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim 
O'er the crowned Alps, that, 'midst the uppei 

sky, 
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy ? 
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound 
Unto these dear, parental faces bound, 
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, 
Haunting thy prison dreams ? Where'er thou 

art, 
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart ! 
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, 
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent, 
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE." 

'TwAs a bright moment of my life when first, 
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flow- 
ing ! 
That temple chamber of thy glory burst 
On my glad sight ! Thy pebbly couch lay 

glowing 
With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 
O'er thy cliff walls a tinge of autumn's vest, 

lighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to pro- 
cure. It is the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished 
young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Aus- 
trian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the 
careers duro during ten years, of which this most interesting 
work contains the narrative. It is deeply aflfecting, from 
the heart-springing eloquence with which he details his va- 
ried sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm of 
the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously revealed 
exaltation of the sufferer's character, spiritualized through 
suffering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beauti- 
ful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind 
brought out more and more into shining light from the 
depth of the dungeon gloom ; and all this crowned at last 
by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his res- 
toration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable 
faces seem perpetually to have haimted the solitude of hit 
cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, an4 
will, I am sure, be on« to afford you lasting delight." 
2 A beautiful valley in the county of Wicdow. 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 



tu 



High bloomed the heath flowers, and the wild 

wood's crest 
Was touched with gold. Flow ever thus, 

bestowing 
Gifts of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 
Gently along thy shores ; and O, if love — 
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught — 
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to 

thee, 
The?i full of kindness let thy music be, 
Singing repose to every troubled thought ! 



ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie. 
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's 

beU, 
Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like 

swell. 
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight filled from 

high, 
And in their monumental purity 
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 
Visions linked strangely with that silent awe 
Which broods o'er sculpture's works. A meet 

ally 
For those heroic forms, the simply grand 
Art thou : and worthy, carved by plastic hand. 
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine 
In spotless marble ; honoring one whose strain 
Soared, upon wings of thought that knew no 

stain, 
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 



ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH, 

"WBITTEIf BY HIMSELF. 

" Stop, Chriatian passer-by I stop, child of God 1 
And read with gentle breast : Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. 
O, lift one thought in prayer for. S T. C. I 
That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath. 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ; 
Mercy, for praise ; to be forgiven, for fame t 
He asked and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same." 

Bpieit ! SO oft in radiant freedom soaring 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, 
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, 
Us caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 
And oft such strains of oreezy music pouring, 
A.8, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, 



Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 
A while that freshness left in paradise ; 
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal ? 
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 
From wealth of thine bequeathed ? O strong, 

and high. 
And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confessed 
Was the Redeemer's cross — thy last bequest 
07ie lesson breathing thence profound humility ! 



DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 

Thay float before my soul, the fair designs 
Which I would body forth to life and power, 
Like clouds, that with their waving hues and 

lines 
Portray majestic buildings — dome and tower, 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the 

shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcade 
Far sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'er- 

wrought, 
I sink. O friend ! O linked with each high 

thought ! 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp ; untU thou seest fulfilled. 
While time and strength allow, my hope t<* 

build, 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane ! 

18th October. 



HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH 

NATURE. 

If e'er again my spirit be allowed 
Converse with Nature in her chambers deep. 
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling clouo. 
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep 
From caves of mystery ; if I roam once more 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar. 
And voiceful oaks respond ; may I net reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, 
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hoiu 
From such communion ? Yes ! I then shall 

know 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought 
Their long, still work of preparation wrought 
For that more perfect sense of God revealed 

below. 



DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night dreams a departed face 
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye, 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, 
But all the tender pity that may lie 
Oh the clear brow of immortality, 
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien ; 
Th' unshadowed moonlight of some far-off sky 
Ari>und it floats transparently serene 
As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep ! 
The spells are mighty in thy regions deep. 
Which glorify with reconciling breath, 
Eifacing, brightening, giving forth to shine 
Beauty's high truth ; and how much more 

divine 
Thy power when linked, in this, with thy stern 

brother. Death ! 



THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rushed to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him as a mantle cast, 
And cherubim to waft his flying seat. 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 
With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud. 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat. 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone, 
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
Tehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire. 
Natures vast realms forever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRA- 
TION. 

"Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, 
Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto." — Baitie. 

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 

Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 
A cloud-like, weeping train : 

Through the long day they dimmed the autumn 
gold 

Oa all the glistening leaves, and wildly rolled, 



When the last farewell flush of light wa» 
glowing 

Across the sunset sky, 
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 

One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn night 
Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown. 
Then with each fitful blast 
Prophetic murmurs passed. 
Wakening or answering some deep sibyl tone 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind harp 
flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive 

no more — 
Faint spirit ! strive no more : for thee too strong 

Are outward iU and wrong. 
And inward wasting fires ! Thou cansfc not soat 

Free on a starry way. 

Beyond their blighting sway. 
At heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to un- 
bind ? 
O passionate, yet weak ! O trembler to the wiud ! 

" Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe — 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh. 
From the reeds hollow shaken, 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague, wild symphony. 
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves nc 
trace — 
Born only so to die ! 

"Never shall aught but perfume, faint and 
vain. 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour. 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household charities no longer bound. 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 

" So fade, fade on ! Thy gift of love shaU cling 
A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain — 
A silent, fruitless, yet undjdng thing, 

All sensitive to pain ! 
And stiU the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 



687 



Foid, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued 
In cold and unrepining quietude ! " 

Then my soul yielded : spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of dea j. — 
Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, 
closing ; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea waves tossed 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast. 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 

When silently it seemed 

As if a soft mist gleamed 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 

To many a shape and l ■" 

Of visioned beauty grew, 
Like a wrought banner, fold bj' fold unfurling. 
O, the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by 
With dreamy motior ! Silver)' seas were there, 
Lit by large driz''JiT'f^ stars, and arched by skies 
Of southern t; -./night's most transparent 
dyes ; 
And gemmed w'tb many an island, wildly fair, 
Which floated past me into orient day. 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumined way, 
I'Dl its hiijh groves of wondrous flowering trees 

Colored the silvery seas. 

&j"d then a glorious mountain chain uprose. 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows. 

All steeped in golden light ! 
While as it passed, those regal peaks unveiling, 
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, 
And mighty sounds, a*? if the vision hailing. 
From lyres that p.vjvered through ten thou- 
sand string? -- 
Or as if waters, fo'-tb to music leaping 

From many a cavo, the Alpine Echo's hall, 
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, 
Linked in rra,viz(''.c anthems ! — while through 
all 
That biUowy swell and fall, 
VoiceS; like ringing crystal, filled the air 
With inarticulate melody, that stirred 
My being's core ; then, naoulding into word 
P^eir piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear 
In that great choral strain my trembling part, 
J*' tones by love and faith struck from a human 
heart. 

Eetum no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Bath swi>lled to power ; a clear, ur.wavering light 



Mounts through the battling clouds that round 
me roll ; 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
The accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound — 
One grand Creation Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music winged and 
crowned. 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though fain ? Shall not my spirit's fire, 
If slowly, j-et unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end .' 

Shall not my earthly love, all purified, 
Shine forth a heavenward guide, 

An angel of bright power — and strongly beai 

My being upward into holier air. 

Where fiery passion clouds have no abode. 
And the sky's temple arch o'erflows with Gor" 

The radiant hope new born 

Expands like rising morn 
In my hfe's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on seme pure stream ; 

So from that hope are spreading 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding 
Each dajr a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me ! — once enjoyed, 

Father of spirits ! let them not depart — 

Leaving the chilled earth, without form and void. 

Darkened by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 
All lovely gifts and pure 
In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea forevermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore-* 
O, consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft tliy 

praise, 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters 

fiU, 
And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! O, let me wake 
The deep religion, which hath dwelt from 
yore 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake. 
And wildest river shore ! 



688 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And let me summon all the voices dwelling 


And yield up all things, to maintain 


Where eagles build, and caverned rills are well- 


The cause for which they girt themselves to 


ing, 


death. 


And where the cataract's organ peal is swelling, 




In that one spirit gathered to adore ! 


And I obey. I leave their towers 




Unto the stranger's tread, 


Forgive, Father ! if presumptuous thought 


Unto the creeping glass and flowers, 


Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 


Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 


Let not thy child aU vainly have been taught 




3y weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 


I leave their shields to slow decay. 


Of sad confession ! Lowly be my heart, 


Their banners to the dust : 


And on its penitential altar spread 


I go, and only bear away 


The offerings vsrorthless, till thy grace impart 


Their old majestic name — a solemn trust ! 


The iire from heaven, whose touch alone can 




shed 


I go up to the ancient hills, 


Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 


Where chains may never be. 


Fierce my whole being, 'wUdered else and dark ! 


Where leap in joy the torrent riUs, 




Where man may worship God, alone and free. 


rhine are aU holy things — 0, make me thine ! 




So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 


There shall an al tar and a camp 


Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, 


Impregnably arise ; 


Strong and divinely free. 


There shall be lit a quenchless lamp. 


Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight. 


To shine, unwavering, through the open skies. 


And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing. 




Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship 


And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard, 


spring. 


And fearless prayer ascend ; 


Immortally endowed for liberty and light. 


While, thrUHng to God's holy word. 




The mountain pines in adoration bend. 




And there the burning heart no more 




Its deep thought shall suppress. 


THE HUGUENOT'S FAHEWELL. 


But the long-buried truth shall pour 




Free currents thenee, amidst the wilderness. 


I STAND upon the threshold stone 




Of mine ancestral hall ; 


Then fare thee well, my mother's bower ! 


I hear my native river moan ; 


Farewell, my father's hearth I — 


I see the night o'er my old forests fall. 


Perish my home ! where lawless power 




Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. 


1 look round on the darkening vale 




That saw my childhood's plays ; 


Perish ! let deathlike silence fall 


The low wind in its rising wail 


Upon the lone abode ; 


Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 


Spread fast, dark ivy ! spread thy pall ; 




I go up to the mountains with my God. 


But I must rule my swelling breast : 




A jign is in the sky ! 




Blight o'er yon gray rock's eagle nest 




Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 


ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.' 


My father's sword is in my hand. 


By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 


His deep voice haunts mine ear 5 


Restless as they with their many-flashing surges. 


He tells me of the noble band 


Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one !' 


Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 






1 The original title given to this poem was The Lameni 


He bids their offspring guard from stain 


of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on thu 


Their pure and lofty faith ; 


suggestion of a friend. It was written in November, 1834. 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



68S 



I pine for thee through aU the joyless day — 

Through the long night I pine : the golden surt 

Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring 

Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved ? 

Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, 

By the old temple on the breezy cliff. 

These hands have heaped the watchfire, till it 

streamed 
Red o'er the shining columns — darkly red 
Along the crested billows ! — but in vain ; 
Thy white saU comes not from the distant; isles — 
Yet thou wert faithful ever. O, the deep 
Hath shut above thy head — that graceful head ; 
The seaweed mingles with thy clustering locks ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges. 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Where art thou ? where ? Had I but lingering 

pressed 
On thy cold lips the last long kiss, but smoothed 
Tne parting ringlets of thy shining hair 
With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been 

stilled 
Into a voiceless grief : I would have strewed 
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods — 
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth. 
And frail anemone — thy marble brow, 
In slumber beautiful ! I would have heaped 
Sweet boughs and precious odors on thy pjTre, 
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, 
And many a garland of the pallid rose : 
But thou liest far away ! No funeral chant, 
Save the -wild moaning of the wave, is thine ; 
No pyre — save, haply, some long-buried wreck ; 
Thou that wert fairest — thou that wert most 

loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters. 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night. 
And speak to me ! E'en though thy voice be 

changed. 
My heart would know it still. O, speak to me ! 
And say if yet, in some dark, far-off world, 
Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, 
O yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, 
We two shall meet again ! O, I would quit 
fhe day rejoicingly — the rosy light — 
AU the rich flowers and fountains musical,- 
And sweet, famiUar melodies of earth, 
87 



To dwell with thee below ! Thou answerest not I 
The powers whom I have called upon are mute 
The voices buried in old whispery caves. 
And by lone river sources, and amidst 
The gloom and mystery of dark prophet oaks, 
The wood gods' haunt — they give me no reply ! 
All silent — heaven and earth ! Forevermore 
From the deserted mountains thou art gone — 
Forever from the melancholy groves, 
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound ! 
And I — I pine through all the joyous day. 
Through the long night I pine — as fondly pines 
The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life 
To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear'st me 

not ! 
The heavens are pitiless of human tears : 
The deep-sea darkness is about thy head ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved 1 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

O Thought ! O Memory ! gems forever heaping 
High in the illumined chambers of the mind — 
And thou, divine Imagination ! keeping 
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts en- 
shrined ; 
How in one moment rent and disintwined, 
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall. 
Your glorious combinations ! broken all, 
As the sand pillars by the desert's wind 
Scattered to whirling dust ! O, soon uncrowned 
Well may your parting swift, your strange return, 
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, 
Guiding its chastened vision to discern 
How by meek Faith heaven's portals must be 



Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. 



SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. 

Thou art like Night, O Sickness ! deeply stUlinjj 
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, 
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling 
With low, sweet voices by Life's tumult drownecU 



Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest 

round 
The things that are unseen — though close they 

lie ; 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Giv'st their dread presence to our mental eye. 
Thou art like starry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life. Be welcome, then, thy rod. 
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to 

God. 



ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE 
ANGEL OF DEATH. I 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 
With that high cabn upon thy regal brow. 
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, 
Unto the glorious artist ! Who but thou 
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow 
For him with permanency ? who make those 

gleams 
Of brighter life, that color his lone dreams. 
Immortal things ! Let others trembling bow. 
Angel of Death ! before thee ; not to those 
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose 
Art thou a fearful shape ! And O, for me, 
How fuU of welcome would thine aspect shine. 
Did not the cords of strong affection twine 
So fast aroiind my soul, it cannot spring to thee ! 



REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

O Nature ! thou didst rear me for thine own, 
With thy free singing birds and mountain brooks. 
Feeding my thoughts iii primrose-haunted 

nooks 
With fairy fantasies and wood dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and 

waves, 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 



1 This sonnet was suggested by the foUowmg passage out 
•f Mrs. Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home andMroad, in 
a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, 
near Dresden : " Afterwards he placed upon his easel a 
•Tondrous face, which made me shrink back — not with ter- 
ror, for it was perfectly beautiful — but with awe, for it was 
■nspoakably fearful : the hair streamed back from the pale 



And where bright mosses wove thee a rich 

throne 
'Midst the green hills : and now that, far 

estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odors of thy breath. 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged 
So glows the love of thee, that not for death 
Seems that pure passion's fervor — but ordained 
To meet on brighter shores thy majesty un- 
stained. 



FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, O, whither wilt thou wing thy way ! 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight ? 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array, 
My spirit ! when thy prison house of clay, 
After long strife, is rent ? Fond, fruitless quest ! 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest. 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits re- 
vealed, 
A glimpse of summer sky i nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. 
Thou art that bird ! — of what beyond thee liea 
Far in the untracked, immeasurable skies. 
Knowing but this — that thou shalt find thy 
Guide ! 



FLOWERS. 

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms ! again 
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 
For not alone ye bring a joyous train 
Of summer thoughts attendant on your bloom- 
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom. 
Of the low murmurs filling mossy deUs, 
Of stars that look down on your folded bells 
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 
Like sudden music : more than this ye bring — 
Far more : ye whisper of the all- fostering love 
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove- 
like wing 



orow — me orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow 
unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull ; but when I 
drew nearer, and looked attentively, two lovely living eyea 
looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if 
from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely 
sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every fea- 
ture. This, he told me, was the Anogl or Dsath " 



Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath, 
Whether the couch be that of life or death. 



RECOVERY. 

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, 
To battle on against the unceasing spray. 
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife. 
And rise to strife ag?an ; yet on my way, 
O, linger stUl, thou Hght of better day ! 
Bom in the hours of loneliness ; and you. 
Ye chUdUke thoughts ! the holy and the true — 
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay. 
The faith, the insight of life's vernal mom 
Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new born. 
Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake 
Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey 

take, 
afting sweet airs of heaven through this low 

world obscure. 



SABBATH SONNET. 

COMPOSED BT MBS. HEMAKS A ncW DATS BBFOBB BCB DB&TH, 
AND DEDICATED TO HEB BBOTHEB. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 
Through England's primrose meadow paths, 

their way 
Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms 

ascending, 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed 

day! 
The halls from old heroic ages gray 
Pour their fair chUdren forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds 

play, 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled 
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled 
To one deer* calm o^ lowliest thankfulness ! 

«6th April 1839 



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